STASH  OF  THE 
MARSH  COUNTRY 

HAROLD  WALDO 


STASH  OF  THE 
MARSH  COUNTRY 


BY 

HAROLD  -WALDO 


NEW  XSJr  YORK 
GEORGE  H.   DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,   1921, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


TO 
MY  GOOD   FRIEND 

RUPERT    HUGHES 

A  FRIEND  OF  POLES 
WHERE  ANY  POLES  ARE  LIVING 


2138825 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  ONE: 

STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY    .       .       .      ,.       n 

BOOK  TWO: 
THE  DAWN  OF  SPLENDID  EMPRISE     ...       35 

BOOK  THREE: 
THE  SHADOW  OB!  CASTLE  DURAND      .       .       .      61 

BOOK  FOUR: 
THE  GIFT  THAT  Is  GREATEST  OF  ALL   .       .       .     121 

BOOK  FIVE: 
"BACK  TO  THE  BOULEVARDS"  r.       .     163 

BOOK  SIX: 
MARIKA  OF  THE  CROSSROADS    .....     193 

BOOK  SEVEN: 

THE  BOHEMIAN  GIRL      ......     239 

BOOK  EIGHT: 

FLYING  GLORY 261 

BOOK  NINE: 
THE  SPLENDID  ENTERPRISE  AT  LAST    .       .       .     297 


vu 


STASH  OF  THE 
MARSH  COUNTRY 


BOOK  ONE:     STASH  OF  THE 
MARSH  COUNTRY 

CHAPTER  I 


Detroit  .  .  .  Stash  remembered  nothing  of  that  city 
but  the  name.  For  he  was  a  tiny  boy  when  his  father, 
mother  and  Uncle  Jan  brought  him  away  to  the  Marsh 
Country.  But  he  heard  the  name  chiming  like  a  belt 
tone  on  their  Polish  lips  .  .  .  Detroit!  And  he  got 
the  notion  that  it  was  a  blue  city — all  a  grand  blue — - 
and  that  they  had  been  wonderfully  happy  there. 

Detroit  in  truth  had  given  them  no  great  luck.  They 
had  brought  out  of  Poland  the  sales  money  of  their 
beggar  nobility  estates,  only  to  sink  it  in  Detroit  waste 
land.  Then,  guided  by  an  iron-headed  relative,  they  had 
come  to  this  strange  country  below  Lake  Michigan — 
where  smaller  bodies,  Lantern  Lake,  Koban  and  Ver- 
milion, dotted  the  marshland  with  wild  beauty. 

No  wonder  they  were  called  the  gay  Plazarskis: 
proud  Jan,  merry  Bolish — and  his  little  thornapple 
flower  wife,  Marynia.  They  had  the  hardihood  to  buy 
old  Koban  Lake  Hotel — with  its  rotten  wharf  and  pil- 
ing, and  its  gloomy  corridors,  where  very  peculiar  hap- 
penings had  occurred. 

ii 


12        STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

In  those  early  days  they  made  the  bleak  lobbies  ring : 
and  believed  that  nice  young  lawyer,  Fentree  of  Du- 
rand,  could  always  fix  up  the  mortgage  extension — like 
re-tying  an  old  black  sash. 

Durand,  the  big  town,  swelled  up,  a  brick  paved 
island,  out  of  the  swaley  menace  of  the  marsh  lands. 
Dark  tamarack  groves  and  blear  old  gun  clubs  gave  an 
air  of  sad  warning  to  the  country ;  but  in  spite  of  this, 
Polish  and  Bohemian  farmers  flourished  on  the 
meadow  flats  and  poured  in  big  crowds  to  the  hotel 
dances  at  Koban  Lake. 

At  these  great  affairs  Stash  sat  with  his  baby  brother 
Savo  on  his  lap,  watching  his  father  Bolish  and  great 
dark  Uncle  Jan,  bravest  of  all  dancers.  Gripping 
Savo's  stomach  good  with  one  hand,  he  pointed  out 
their  girl  mother — flying  so  swift  and  beautiful: 
"Dere's  Matka!"  He  could  hardly  believe  she  be- 
longed to  them. 

It  was  hard  for  the  youngish  lawyer  Fentree  to 
credit  the  tempestuous  little  lady  with  three  small  sons. 
Stash,  the  middle  one,  was  his  pick.  But  he  was  fond 
of  the  whole  family  of  strange  wilful  creatures. 

He  had  never  forgotten  that  the  people  of  Koban 
crossroads  had  given  him  his  start.  A  shabby  young 
lawyer  from  Ohio,  he  had  gotten  to  the  point  of  writ- 
ing secretly  despairing  letters  to  the  girl  back  home, 
pleading  shame  and  fear  of  his  incompetence,  when 
suddenly  he  had  won  the  loyalty  of  these  Koban  Lake 
people  by  clearing  a  young  Bohemian  boy  of  homicide. 
All  their  affairs  were  brought  to  Mist'  Fen,  as  they 
called  him ;  and  the  girl  from  Marietta  came  on,  bring- 
ing him  happiness  and  home.  Whenever  he  thought 
of  the  childish  gratitude  and  generosity  of  these  people 


STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY        13 

he  resolved  to  some  day  do  something  noble  and  fine 
for  them.  In  his  heart  they  came  to  be  his  people. 

But  so  far  as  Stash's  family  were  concerned  he  could 
make  no  hand  of  their  muddled  affairs.  Stash's  father 
had  been  carried  off  to  Detroit  to  meet  a  prison  sen- 
tence for  financial  bungling.  And  when  that  once  light- 
hearted  fellow  came  back — queer  and  staring-eyed — 
his  little  wife  had  run  away  from  him  with  the  Durand 
Savoy  fiddler,  Jack  Cardoul.  So  Stash's  lovely  matka 
had  flown.  His  crazed  father  then  had  left,  to  wander 
the  country,  singing  for  a  living  in  dance  hall  and 
saloon.  And  a  night  came  at  length  when  Fentree 
could  no  longer  manage  that  black  sash — the  mortgage 
tape. 

Yet  he  meant  to  have  a  last  try — for  the  sake  of 
proud  Jan.  It  was  a  hot  summer  night  when  he  left 
the  lights  of  South  Durand  twinkling  behind.  With  a 
soft  shattering  rustle  the  dark  lake  lapped  the  cause- 
way, where  his  horse's  hoofs  ran  drumming.  The  hotel 
lifted  like  a  blazing  elevator  on  the  misty  prairie,  and 
the  mournful  billows  of  Danube  Vlny  rocked  out  on 
the  still,  hot  night.  A  hotel  dance  was  on. 

II 

How  happy  Stash  was  to  see  the  stooped  shoulders 
ploughing  across  the  big  room  towards  him!  There 
were  puckery  wrinkles  of  kindness  about  the  lawyer's 
sharp  hazel  eyes.  He  had  a  way  of  drumming  Stash's 
fist  on  his  own  tall  knee  as  they  sat  side  by  side.  Next 
to  Uncle  Jan  he  was  the  best  man  Stash  knew. 

And  Uncle  Jan  had  been  queer  enough  to-day  to 
frighten  a  fellow  like  Stash.  He  had  drunk  a  lot  of 
Slwovice  and  now  was  dancing  like  mad.  He  launched 


14        STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

up  to  the  lawyer  presently,  carrying  sleepy  Savo,  whose 
grubby  feet  soiled  his  embroidered  white  shirt  with 'its 
cherry  ribbon  tie,  and  handed  Fentree  some  papers, 
lingering  as  if  he  would  tell  him  something.  .  .  . 
With  his  sunken  dark  eyes  only,  it  would  seem. 

Despairing  of  doing  business  with  Jan  and  the 
swarthy  morose  mortgagee,  at  least  until  the  dance  was 
over,  Fentree  lagged  slowly  up  to  his  room.  He  tried 
to  read  "Tittlebat  Titmouse" — which  he  carried  as  a 
legal  man's  night  reading, — but  the  rankling  sweet- 
ness of  the  girls'  voices  drifted  up  to  disturb  him.  .  .  . 
All  through  the  old  hotel,  with  its  musty  harvest  heat 
and  the  tart  charm  of  its  pretty  Czech  dancers,  he  felt 
a  queer  disquieting  imminence.  .  .  .  Opening  the 
manila  envelope  Jan  had  given  him,  he  found  letters 
and  affidavits  that  explained  the  secret  of  Stash's 
ruined  father-r-"Loony"  Bolish.  He  had  been  sub- 
orned to  perjury  by  old  "Whaleback"  Walewski,  the 
iron-headed  relative  who  had  steered  the  family  to  the 
marsh  country.  Old  Step  Walewski,  with  the  fierce  red- 
dish brown  eyes,  had  done  it!  He  had  not  only  en- 
tangled the  family  fortunes  in  canal  and  whaleback 
freighter  stocks,  and  seen  Bolish  sent  to  prison  for  his 
own  malfeasance,  but  had  sent  word  to  the  young  fel- 
low in  prison  that  his  little  wife  was  carrying  on — dis- 
gracing him !  No  wonder  the  poor  boy's  haunted  ter- 
rible face  had  driven  Marynia  into  flight!  Fentree's 
brain  thundered  with  anger  and  the  pity  of  it. 

He  turned  to  the  comforting  dullness  of  "Tittlebat"; 
and  listening  to  carriage  loads  departing  in  the  velvet 
dark  night — then  reading  again — he  fell  into  a  half 
sleep.  ...  A  reverberating  bang  brought  him  to  his 
feet — and  down  the  hall — to  a  door  that  dusted  yel- 
low light  and  acrid  smoke  upon  him. 


STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY        15 

Proud  Uncle  Jan  lay  on  the  floor  like  a  waxwork  of 
dying  Custer  that  Fentree  had  once  seen.  On  one  glass 
of  "red  ink"  an  olive-colored  oil  from  a  man's  lips  still 
wormed  uneasily.  The  lawyer  thrust  round  the  paper- 
littered  table — and  saw  the  smudged  marble  face  of 
Jastrow  the  mortgagee  staring  blankly  from  the  floor. 
Then  Jan  had  shot  him!  The  revolver  lay  close  to 
Jan's  hand — as  if  he  had  finished  himself!  Fentree 
turned  with  a  start.  .  .  .Young  Stash  Plazarski  stood 
in  the  doorway.  The  little  fellow  began  to  cry,  to  sob, 
with  frightened  heaves  of  his  small  chest.  It  seemed 
as  if  a  small  boy  inside  the  man  began  to  cry  in  sympa- 
thy. He  wanted  to  grasp  the  little  Polski  tight  in  his 
arms  and  rush — rush  on  away  with  him!  Instead  he 
took  one  small  damp  fist  and  walked  him  down  the 
hall  toward  tottering  lights  and  hurrying  figures. 

in 

Stash  and  Fentree  rattled  lightly  out  of  Koban  Hotel 
alley,  and  sped  on  where  the  lake  gleamed  gray  across 
the  misty  marshes  or  spurted  its  lead-blue  glitter  along 
the  dim  shore  road.  A  secret  red  streak  of  the  dawn- 
ing day  smoldered  in  the  eastern  sky.  Far  ahead  the 
big  town  loomed  in  hazy  shining.  To  Stash  it  seemed 
like  a  mysterious  celestial  city.  He  wanted  to  cry ;  and 
again,  glorious  band  music  seemed  rushing  through  his 
head. 

Fentree  grasped  his  fist  and  began  drumming  it  on 
his  big  sharp  knee :  "It'll  be  pretty  early  when  we  get 
home,  Stash ;  but  my  girls  will  likely  be  up — especially 
if  we  stop  for  coffee  at  Velvar's,  and  then  at  the  Court 
House,  where  I've  got  to  look  in.  ...  You'll  like  my 
girl  Andre  .  .  .  why — why,  Stash!  .  .  ."  The  boy 


16        STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

had  clutched  his  elbow  and  dug  a  shining  fair  head 
against  Fentree's  arm — sobbing.  Fentree  bounced  the 
young  fist  harder.  .  .  .  And  Shabbona  Street  Bridge 
began  to  rumble  beneath  them. 

Crossing  the  brick  square  to  Vermilion  County 
building,  they  mounted  high  into  echoing  halls;  and 
somewhere  out  of  the  surrounding  green  ocean  of  tree- 
tops  burst  the  booming  of  the  Polish  Catholic  bell  for 
early  mass.  .  .  .  "For  Uncle  Jan!"  thought  Stash  in 
gusts  of  sweetish  anguish  that  stifled  him,  "for  Uncle 
Jan!" 

Down  then  into  the  cool  shady  street,  while  the  bell 
rolled  on  more  mellow  booming;  past  sparkling  deep 
lawns;  up  past  the  ruins  of  Walewski's  sandstone 
"castle";  and  down  the  other  slope  of  Wacaser  Street 
hill;  coming  at  last  to  a  square  lilac-colored  house 
moored  under  banking  maples. 

A  small  girl  of  laughing  gray-blue  eyes  met  them  on 
the  lower  porch  gallery. 

"Hello,  Andre,"  said  the  lawyer,  "here's  Stash.  I 
told  him  he'd  like  you  when  you  got  up — and  you  seem 
to  be  up!" 

Andrea  laughingly  reached  for  Stash's  hand,  and 
got  it  warmly  in  hers ;  and  it  seemed  to  him  suddenly 
that  he  did  like  her.  They  had  started  up  the  black 
walnut  stairway,  and  Fentree  called :  "Take  Stash  up 
to  the  cupolo,  Andre." 

"That's  where  I'm  going  to,"  Andrea  called  back. 

Andrea's  mother  appeared  and  asked  who  Andre's 
company  was. 

"It's  Stash — the  fellow  I  told  you  about.  .  .  .  His 
Uncle  Jan  had  some  kind  of  set-to  with  young  Jastrow 
along  in  the  night — and  shot  him  over  their  mortgage 
quarrel.  .  .  .  Himself  too — through  the  breast.  I 


STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY        IT 

s'pose  he  thought  he  was  making  it  square.  .  .  .  He 
was  at  the  end  of  his  rope — no  place  to  take  those  boys 
when  the  Jastrows  drove  him  out.  I  felt  sort  of  re- 
sponsible ...  I'd  fallen  asleep  waiting.  You  take 
care  of  Stash  this  morning — and  I'll  think  out  some- 
thing to  do." 

His  chance  had  come  at  last:  a  chance  to  do  some- 
thing for  one  of  those  Kokan  Lake  people  who  had 
served  him  so  generously.  He  would  figure  out  some 
way,  he  told  himself,  to  take  care  of  Stash. 


rv 

When  Fentree  came  home  at  noon  he  found  Stash 
and  Andre  and  Louise  in  the  "cupolo"  play-room,  sur- 
rounded by  paper,  brushes  and  water-colors. 

"See,  Dad,"  said  Andre,  "Stash  has  made  a  painting 
of  Koban  Lake — with  little  Savo  and  him  fishing — 
and  you  and  him  driving  by." 

"Great!"  Fentree  splendidly  overlooked  the  anom- 
aly of  Stash  protruding  twice  in  the  same  landscape. 
"We'll  see  next  time  I  go  to  Koban  if  his  drawing  has 
changed  the  lake  as  much  as  all  that." 

"But  how  could  it  change  the  lake?"  Louise  asked 
in  her  puzzled  younger  sister  way. 

Fentree  caught  Andre's  knowing  smile  and  said : 
"By  hydrostatics."  And  by  some  allied  statics  he 
wedged  three  hands  into  his  one,  and  started  for  the 
curving  stairway:  "Come  on;  dinner  time." 

Louise  got  untangled  in  order  to  say  rapidly :  "Stash 
has  band  tunes  in  his  head,  and  a  wild  man  comes  to 
see  him " 

"That  crazy  that  the  rhyme's  about,"  Andre  con- 
tinued eagerly,  "  'Loony  Bolish  drank  like  a  fish '  " 


18        STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

"Let's  forget  that  foolishness,"  said  Fentree,  "Boly 
had  a  wonderful  voice,  might  have  made  a  great 
singer." 

"And  he  holds  Stash  between  his  knees,"  Andre  ran 
on,  "and  asks  him  if  he  doesn't  remember  him.  And 
Stash  knows  lots  of  fine  people  at  Koban — Tony  Mar- 
zak  that  lets  him  drive  the  big  milk  wagon,  and  Marika 
Varika  that  he  says  is  the  prettiest  girl  there  is.  .  .  ." 

It  was  evident  to  Fentree  that  Stash  had  been  blus- 
tering about  his  band  tunes  and  his  Koban  Lake  circle. 
And  he  wondered  at  his  sudden  saddened  quiet  during 
dinner. 

The  little  Pole  boy  was  wondering  too  .  .  .  wonder- 
ing why  he  hadn't  put  brother  Varsh  in  his  drawing — • 
big  bratter  Varsh  who  was  always  laughing,  and  carry- 
ing him  and  Savo  on  his  back,  or  taking  their  fish  off 
the  line  for  them — red  cut-throat  trout  that  swam  in 
Koban  Lake. 

CHAPTER  II 


Fentree  took  Stash  to  the  hotel  for  Uncle  Jan's 
funeral,  and  left  him  there  with  his  brothers  until 
affairs  could  be  wound  up.  The  estate  was  in  a  com- 
plicated shape;  but  Step  Walewski,  the  gaunt  master 
of  the  family,  who  had  come  down  from  Detroit  to 
take  charge,  would  have  none  of  Fentree's  services  in 
the  settlement. 

In  Stash's  young  mind  the  drear  and  terrible  night 
of  his  Uncle's  death  had  grown  vague, — but  not  so 
the  trip  through  the  early  morning  dusk  to  Fentree's 
house — nor  the  two  days  he  spent  there,  sweet  as  any 


dream.  Always  he  longed  to  get  back;  and  a  magic 
morning  arrived  when  he  drove  up  to  the  Fentree  door 
on  Tony  Marzak's  milk  van.  A  slick  green  fedora 
that  Tony  had  bought  him  swaggered  on  his  head,  and 
he  was  ripe  with  a  great  plan.  This  was  nothing  less 
than  a  trip  to  Koban  Lake  for  those  Fentree  girls.  He 
had  the  road-map  for  it  right  in  his  mind. 

In  the  front  parlour  he  found  himself  facing  certain 
difficulties — the  girls'  mother  to  get  rid  of,  for  one — 
and  he  sat  with  fedora  between  his  knees  making  po- 
lite talk  while  waiting  for  matters  to  come  to  a  head. 

"Dat  old  Unk  Walewski,"  he  muttered  hoarsely, 
"he's  bossin'  de  hotel  now.  Libusse  she's  'fraid  of 
him,  but  Varsh  am'  scared!" 

"Isn't  Varsh  scared?"  Louise  asked  eagerly,  as  she 
huddled  close  to  Andre  on  the  divan. 

"Varsh  swear  at  him — like  .  .  ."  Stash  growled 
picturesquely,  but  politely  omitted  raw  profanity. 
"One  time  when  ol'  man  is  sleepin' — Varsh  got  de  dog 
to  lie  down  on  his  feet  where  ol'  man  gotta  stumble 
over  him  when  he  stand  up!" 

"Did  he?"  Andre  asked  eagerly. 

"No,  but  he  step  on  de  dog !  Dat  dog  begin  to  cry — 
o-o-e-e-e !  Unk  Step  wave  his  stick  at  Varsh !" 

"And  what  did  Varsh  do  ?"  Louise  sighed  forth  her 
pent  excitement. 

"Varsh  he  shake  his  fist  an'  say — 'We  got  too  many 
ol'  dogs  sleepin'  roun'  here!'' 

"Good  for  Varsh!"  Andre  exclaimed  triumphantly, 
while  Louise  beamed  on  Stash  appreciatively.  She — 
he  was  pleased  to  notice — saw  in  him  a  reflected  glory 
from  Varsh's  masterfulness. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.    The  room  was  pleas- 


20        STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

antly  dusk  with  its  varnished  inside  blinds.  Mrs.  Fen- 
tree  had  left.  "Let's  go  outdoors,"  said  Andre. 

Stash  sprang  up  promptly,  and  they  edged  out  onto 
the  gallery  in  a  body.  "Say,"  he  began  with  an  enter- 
prising air,  "I  gotto  go  back  to  Koban  pretty  soon — 
an'  I  can  take  you  dis  trip.  Wid  Tony." 

"In  that  big  green-covered  wagon !" 

"Yessir !  I  can  take  you  dis  trip.  I  got  a  road-map 
to  take  you  in  my  mind.  It's  safe." 

Andre  ignored  his  tone  of  patronage,  but  did  not 
forget. 

"Oh,  that  would  be  like  gipsies!"  she  exclaimed. 
They  were  walking  down  the  alley  now  towards  the 
back  yard.  The  yellowing  bushes  and  fall  wind  bright 
blowing  filled  them  with  a  moving  sense  of  adventure. 
Stash  explained  how  they  were  to  meet  Tony  way  off 
on  the  main  road. 

"You  know  just  how  to  get  there  sure?"  Andre  ques- 
tioned, yielding  with  delicious  slowness. 

"You  bet-cha!" 

"I  guess  we'll  do  it,"  Andre  exclaimed  softly,  "if 
mother " 

"You  bet'  not  ask  Miz  Fentree!"  Stash  nodded 
sagely. 

"I  guess  maybe  you're  right,"  Andre  mused,  "I'm 
afraid  she  might  say  no — and  it's  going  to  be  such  fun 
that  she'd  wonder  afterwards  why  she  could  ever  have 
told  us  not  to." 

"Fun!  .  .  "  Stash  shot  his  hands  above  the  green 
fedora  and  let  them  tumble  helplessly. 

Louise  was  visibly  swerving,  and  Andre  said:  "It 
would  be  like  gipsies — and  that!  Besides,  I  want  to 
see  Varsh — and  the  dog!" 


STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY        21 

Louise  laughed  in  spite  of  herself  and  the  victory 
was  won. 

Stash  led  them  out  through  the  back  fence  and 
down  the  swart  paths  of  the  railroad  embankment. 
They  saw  the  green  lights  of  a  caboose  dwindling  spec- 
trally in  the  calcium  brightness  of  the  Autumn  morn- 
ing. Stash  paused:  "I  could  take  you  down  over  dat 
ol'  railroad  bridge — but  I  got  to  take  you  safe." 

He  plunged  briskly  across  the  tracks ;  crawled  under 
a  derrick  tender ;  led  on  across  empty  fields ;  and  halted 
them  at  last  on  a  mouse-colored  wooden  bridge :  "Dis 
is  w'ere  we  got  to  wait!"  He  sat  down  under  a  hazel 
clump  at  the  bridge  head,  with  a  great  breath  of  satis- 
faction. 

Andre  wandered  back  to  look  down  on  islands  of 
brown  rushes  and  blue  bowls  of  inverted  sky  crusted 
with  yellow  filigree  of  poplar  and  alder  leaves.  Lean- 
ing on  the  silvering  bridge  chord,  she  called:  "Oh, 
Stash,  bring  your  jack-knife!  Here's  a  name  you 
could  change  to  yours  with  just  a  little  cutting !  Come 
on!" 

Stash  refused  to  move.  He  had  no  jack-knife,  and 
he  had  a  feeling  that  Andre  knew  it!  That  was  why 
she  was  calling  so  persistently.  He  saw  that  it  was 
going  to  be  a  constant  fight  to  hold  his  lead  of  the 
party. 

Andre  wandered  back :  "Well,  this  is  fine !  .  .  .  I'm 
afraid  your  gipsy  man  isn't  coming!" 

Stash  cast  up  his  eyes  from  under  the  rim  of  his 
slick  fedora.  They  were  dark  eyes — black  in  contrast 
with  his  fair  hair. 

"Besides — we  don't  really  know  what  kind  of  man  he 
is!" 

"Tony  Marzak ! — "  Stash  straightened  up,  clutching 


22        STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

off  his  hat  in  his  eagerness  to  defend  his  friend :  "He's 
such  a  man  dat  ...  he  ain'  never  .  .  .  Savo  an'  me 
have  him  .  .  .  dere  ain'  no  man  dat!  ...  he  buy  me 
dis  hat  jus'  dis  morning." 

"This  morning!"  Andre  exclaimed  mildly.  "Isn't 
that  the  hat  you  always  had?" 

Stash  was  reduced  to  a  pitiable  recourse :  "An'  dis 
necktie!" — pointing  to  a  shiny  made-up  bow  of  pink 
flowered  design — "it's  like  what  Tony  and  Andy 
wears !"  His  shining  head  lowered  in  chagrin,  and  his 
clenched  fist  punched  out  the  slick  fedora  into  the 
peaked  kunio  shape  worn  by  Pole  section  hands. 

Louise  clutched  his  arm:  "Don't  do  that,  Stash!" 
Pulling  it  gently  away,  she  creased  it  carefully  and  set 
it  back  on  his  head :  "There — that's  like  Dad  wears." 

Andre  was  feeling  a  certain  remorse,  and  it  made 
her  angry  to  feel  that  way — when  she  had  done  noth- 
ing! 

Stash  sprang  to  his  feet,  shouting:  "Dat's  him — 
see  dat  big  green  wagon — see,  dat's  Tony — he's 
comin' !" 

The  broad  brown  face  was  grinning  widely ;  he  pre- 
tended to  be  dashing  by,  but  pulled  up  abruptly  be- 
yond the  hazel  bush.  There  was  room  for  all  four  on 
the  broad  seat — by  discounting  a  tremendous  squeeze. 
And  Autumn  adventure  furnished  liberal  discount. 
Andre  pinched  Stash's  arm :  a  recognized  mode  of  re- 
conciliation. 

Marzak  was  not  the  least  elated  of  the  four :  "Well, 
dis  is  nice  surprise  for  me!  I  never  'spect  see  you 
again  till  Sunday,  Stash-a-boy!  An'  here  you  got  up 
little  party  for  me!" 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,  Stash,"  Andre  pounced,  "that 
you  hadn't  told  him  about  meeting  us  ?" 


STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY        23 

"No — siH"  chuckled  Stash.  "Wat  you  tink  I  make 
dat  map  in  my  head  for?  I  know  where  he  drive 
every  day,  an'  I  gotto  make  it  come  out  on  time !" 

Tony  pulled  out  a  cigarette,  and  passed  the  reins 
over  Andre's  head  to  Stash.  They  bounced — en  quar- 
tette— to  the  bang  of  the  Monhawk  railroad  tracks; 
settled  squashily  together;  and  caravaned  boomingly 
on  through  the  Autumn  morning,  towards  the  marshes 
and  Koban  Lake.  Already  the  lake  sent  smarting 
sparkles  to  their  eyes. 

Stash  had  devised  a  unique  diversion.  His  new 
hat  he  punched  out  in  clumsy  Polak  shape  and  stretched 
it  over  the  knee  nearest  Louise — then  stared  pensively 
across  the  blue  glitter  of  the  lake.  With  gentle  stealth 
she  slipped  it  from  his  knee  and  creased  it  carefully 
into  shape  again.  Gradually,  with  deep  lunges  of  his 
fist,  he  removed  the  elegance  of  her  craft  and,  biting 
his  lips  to  keep  from  chuckling,  dragged  the  green 
wreck  over  his  knee  again.  After  the  third  salvaging, 
she  put  the  hat  on  his  head,  saying  with  gentle  firm- 
ness :  "I  want  you  to  let  it  stay  that  way !"  And 
Stash  obeyed;  but  had  to  celebrate  a  humorous 
triumph,  swaying  back  in  a  collapse  of  merriment.  He 
chose  to*  baffle  Andre's  eager  inquiry  about  the  joke, 
and  screwed  his  dark  eyes  joyously  at  Louise. 

The  old  hotel  loomed  melancholy  in  its  ragged  bass- 
woods,  whose  crayon-yellow  leaves  lit  the  drab  and 
splintered  dinginess  of  the  deserted  galleries.  Brother 
Varsh  was  nowhere  in  sight;  and,  though  Louise 
begged  Stash  to  stop  for  him  and  though  Tony  offered 
to  pull  up,  Stash  shook  his  head  firmly.  He  knew  that 
Varsh's  verve  would  sweep  the  command  of  the  party 
away  from  him,  just  as  everything  was  rolling  nicely 
under  his  own  sway.  A  pang  of  lonesome  distress  for 


Varsh  and  little  Savo  shot  through  his  heart,  but  he 
muffled  it  sternly. 

They  passed  on  and  swung  into  the  Marzak  farm, 
where  the  chief  attraction  was  a  little  summer  garden 
right  on  the  roadside.  Surrounded  by  grapevines  and 
sunflowers,  with  its  blue  painted  chairs  and  tables,  it 
made  a  cool  bower  for  summertime.  And  often  enough 
the  neighbors  found  cool  drinks  of  Tokaiski  there — 
and  old  country  weeklies  too — Humoristicke  Listy  or 
old  copies  of  Slovansky  Prehled.  Yes,  it  was  an  at- 
tractive place  in  summer.  But  on  this  fall  day  it  had 
the  beguiling  desolation  of  some  little  lost  domain. 

"Isn't  it  just  as  cunning!"  Andre  exclaimed.  "Shall 
we  sweep  up?" 

"Shall  we?"  said  Louise,  almost  tenderly,  touched 
by  its  gipsy  forlornness. 

"I  don'  care!"  said  Stash,  scuffling  in  the  musty 
sweet  leaves.  He  kicked  as  though  he  would  jerk  out 
that  mournful  feeling  that  was  sunk  in  his  chest.  He 
could  have  Varsh  and  Savo  here — he  could,  he  could! 
.  .  .  But  in  that  way  he  would  lose.  .  .  .  He  plunged 
into  work,  and  that  mournfulness  like  a  music  ebbed 
away. 

Suddenly  Andre  sat  down  on  one  of  the  clean-swept 
benches:  "What'll  we  do  when  we  get  it  all  cleaned 
up?" 

"I'll  tell  you!"  grunted  Stash,  tugging  at  the  big 
table.  "We  get  Tony's  sisters  to  bring  us  de  cakes." 

"Well,  but  do  they  know  about  it?"  Andre  objected. 

"No — but  Varika  don'  either !" 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?" 

"I'm  goin'  to  get  him  to  give  us  de  nice  syrup;  an' 
have  Jennika  an'  Marika  Varika  come  over  here " 

"Well,  I  don't  know  anything  about  those  girls," 


STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY       25 

said  Andre,  "except  what  Dad  tells.  They  live  in  an 
old  saloon,  don't  they?" 

"No,  sir — you  come  see!"  He  pointed  across  the 
fields  to  a  mass  of  box  alders. 

"But  aren't  you  going  to  have  Varsh  and  Savo  at 
all?"  Andre  protested. 

Stash  hesitated  a  moment,  decided  he  could  put  it  off 
a  little  longer:  "I'll  see  to  dat!"  he  flung  back  as  he 
struck  out  across  fields. 


ii 

The  actuality  fell  short  of  Andre's  ominous  hopes. 
A  cross-roads  store  with  bar  in  connection,  and  living 
rooms  behind  was  not  so  terrible.  But  approaching 
the  happiest  previsions — little  Marika  Varika  came  to 
them  in  the  musty  store  room,  a  person  of  peach-blow 
coloring  and  dark  eyes.  She  stood  clasping  Stash's 
hand,  pressing  and  working  it  in  her  pleasure  over  this 
visit  from  the  two  Fentree  girls — dazzling  them  with 
the  mute  excitement  of  her  dark  eyes. 

"Let's  go  in  da  saloon,  see  Varika!"  Stash  sug- 
gested. 

"All  right!"  said  Andre  in  a  hushed  but  eager  tone. 
Somewhere  a  burst  of  laughter  rocketed  up  and  sizzled 
out  in  crackling  talk.  The  little  store  was  redolent  of 
queer  smells,  like  fruit  and  cheese  and  oilcloth  min- 
gled. Louise,  her  violet  eyes  dark  with  delighted 
alarm,  followed  the  group  led  by  Stash  in  his  confident 
creased  hat. 

Varika' s  fiery  laughing  brown  eyes  greeted  them 
from  under  eyebrow  porches  as  brown  as  Praha  snuff. 

"Staslaf !"  he  cried,  throwing  out  his  arms  as  if  to 
enunciate  some  rolling  political  principle.  He  did  no 


26        STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

such  thing.  It  was  merely  his  generous  forensic  man- 
ner. One  great  thing  about  him — he  seemed  to  under- 
stand exactly  what  was  expected  of  him :  gathering  up 
bottles  and  metal  table,  he-  plunged  out  to  the  latticed 
pavilion  in  the  rear. 

Returning  briskly  he  said:  "Well,  dat  new  fam'ly 
of  yours  is  waitin'  out  dere  for  you!"  Stash  lunged 
out  through  the  citron  fragrant  lobby.  Nor  could  it  be 
truly  said  that  his  family  were  waiting"  for  him.  They 
were  chattering  like  purple  martins  under  an  eave: 
Andre  and  Marika  and  little  Anetka  absorbed  in  each 
other;  while  Louise  was  hanging  on  the  words  of  Jen- 
nika,  that  lithe  older  sister  with  the  moody  red  mouth 
and  troubling  black  eyes. 

Stash  was  so  pleased  with  his  undertaking  that  he 
forgot  the  mourning  little  song  inside  of  him  that  had 
yearned  for  Varsh  and  Savo.  Lemon  leaves  from  tall 
creek  alders  fluttered  above  their  table.  Little  shadows 
fled  across  the  floor.  The  pavilion  was  meant  for  days 
of  warmth ;  yet  it  made  a  carefree  setting,  even  to  the 
cold  gray  deck  with  the  bare  circles  worn  by  shuffling 
feet  in  that  departed  time  when  it  was  summer. 

It  was  a  cap-sheaf  to  Stash's  road-map  affair  to  have 
Mrs.  Varika  bring  out  hot  knedlichek  buns  all  prickly 
sweet  with  mak  from  red  field  poppies.  He  was  so 
wrought  up  now  that  he  could  not  check  the  assertive- 
ness  that  conies  on  the  lone  masculine  member  of  a 
party.  He  didn't  try.  He  gave  it  rein ;  retarded  slight- 
ly by  Jennika's  glances,  and  finally  by  Andre's  cool 
penetrating  voice : 

"What  do  you  think ! — When  I  told  Stash  about  Rose 
Maddon  and  called  her  Rose  Madder  for  a  water-color 
— he  thought  she  would  be  red  all  over !"  She  produced 


STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY       27 

a  light  rippling  laugh  for  purposes  of  polite  derision. 
It  was  the  first  shot  of  the  offensive. 

"Dat's  de  one  you  make  up — ain'  no  such  girl!" 
Stash  protested  feebly  against  the  tide  of  feminine  re- 
pression now  setting  against  him.  He  should  have 
been  scheming  his  retreat  at  that  moment. 

"Who  is  she?"  Jennika  inquired  with  rising  interest, 
"Rose " 

"Rose  Maddon? — She  lives  down  our  street  in 
the  Park  House — and — the  loveliest  dresses!"  This 
from  Andre :  her  words,  her  manner  conveying  a  subtle 
impression  of  intimacy  between  this  Rose  of  the  won- 
derful dresses  and  the  Misses  Fentree  of  Wacaser 
Street.  Stash  began  to  see  that  he  was  being  ignored. 

"But  what  does  she  look  like?"  Marika  inquired  in 
her  soft  swift  voice  that  slurred  the  h's  slightly. 

"Like—"  Andre  hesitated— "like  Goldilocks." 

"Who's  that?"  little  Anetka  timidly  inquired. 

Andre  was  shocked  at  this  gap  in  Anetka's  knowl- 
edge, and  took  quick  pains  to  mend  it. 

"Well,  sir !"  said  Stash,  with  a  flourish  of  his  hoarse 
treble  voice,  "Libusse  tell  me  about  old  svient  in  Stary 
Bohemie  that  have  a  lot  of  bears  to  work  for  him.  Dey 
like  dat  ol'  man  so  much — cook  his  tea  an'  ever'tink. 
One  day  bigga  bear  Jan  try  to  feed  him  wid  a  spoon ; 
but  ol'  svient  say — 'You  ain't  no  help,  ol'  bear  Jan,  an' 
I'm  goin'  to  kick  you  pretty  quick,  pretty  quick !' ' 

"An'  did  he  kick  'im?"  whimpered  little  Anetka, 
who  couldn't  think  of  helpful  bigga  bear  Jan  being 
kicked  without  her  deep  brown  eyes  smarting. 

"I  guess  he  did!"  said  Stash  callously. 

The  girls  joined  in  shaming  him — as  if  he  himself 
had  kicked  poor  old  Jan !  And  he  giving  the  party  too ! 

Louise  suddenly  grew  worried  about  getting  home; 


28        STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

and  Andre  said  stiltedly :  "Of  course ! — he's  got  us  out 
here  and  no  way  fixed  to  get  us  home!"  Jennika's 
rankling  sweet  dark  eyes  explored  him,  she  whispered 
huskily :  "Just  like  him !"  Only  in  Marika's  eyes  was 
there  compassion  for  Stash  as  well  as  big  bear  Jan. 

He  sprang  up,  throwing  his  iron  chair  clattering, 
and  retired  from  the  deck  with  a  shake  of  his  fist.  "I'll 
fix  it  so  we  can  go !"  he  shouted  back. 


in 

In  the  mirky  little  lobby  he  found  his  feet  lagging. 
His  heart  was  hammering  angrily,  flushing  waves  of 
misery  and  humiliation  through  him.  He  had  tried  to 
do  his  best.  He  had  set  out  with  a  magnificent  enter- 
prise. Yet  somehow — something  told  him  he  had  not 
done  his  best.  It  was  that  little  mourning  voice  in  his 
heart  that  sighed  for  Varsh.  Why  hadn't  he  brought 
Varsh  along,  why  hadn't  he  asked  Varsh  ?  For  Varsh 
always  knew  what  to  do. 

He  lagged  into  the  saloon  and  sat  down  at  an  iron 
table.  Sulkiness  and  shame  were  eating  into  his  heart 
as  he  fumbled  idly  with  a  box  and  dice.  Varika,  noting 
his  sadness,  came  across :  "For  var  ? — for  vy  you  act 
— das  not  a  way !  Come  now,  wat  you  goin'  to  shake 
me  for?" 

He  shoved  the  dice-box  into  Stash's  hand,  who  sat 
with  grimy  fist  against  his  cheek  and  rakish  fedora 
lugged  low  over  his  brow.  Looking  up  into  the  little 
Czech's  friendly  warm  eyes,  he  tried  to  smile  and  mut- 
tered :  "A  horse." 

"All  right!"  Varika  chuckled,  "we  throw  for  a 
horse,  all  right!  You  go  ahead — razzle-dazzle!" 

Stash  rolled  the  bones  carelessly  and  tossed  them 


STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY        29 

out.  They  gamboled  and  teetered  to  stillness :  Double 
six! 

The  hostinets  keeper  tried  his  luck  in  scrambling 
haste  and  threw  an  ignominious  result.  "You've  got 
it,  you've  got  it!"  he  chuckled.  "I  guess  you  win  dat 
horse.  You're  a  regular  Hanak  for  horses — wat  you 
goin'  to  do  wid  him?" 

"I  got  to  fix  to  take  dem  home,"  Stash's  eyes  rolled 
up  mournfully,  "  'cause  dey  said  I  got  'em  here  an' 
couldn'  get  dem  home!" 

"Why,  you  got  de  horse  now!"  Varika  laughed, 
spreading  his  arms  forensically,  "dat's  all  dere  is  to  it ! 
I'll  trow  in  de  wagon.  You  wait  for  me !" 

A  few  moments  later  Andre,  Louise  and  Stash 
waved  good-bye  to  the  little  Varikas  under  the  gray 
alders. 

rv 

At  the  hotel  Stash  climbed  down  from  the  light 
wagon,  pledging  the  girls  to  wait  with  Varika  until  he 
could  bring  out  Savo,  Varsh  and  the  dog. 

Varsh  surprised  the  girls  by  being  rather  smaller 
than  they  had  expected  of  the  fellow  who  had  defied 
old  Walewski.  But  his  voice  in  its  hoarseness,  his 
black  darting  eyes,  his  husky  mellow  laugh,  made  him 
seem  larger  than  he  was.  He  occupied  himself  by 
teasing  the  dog  gruffly,  but  when  Andre  asked  him  if 
that  was  the  dog  he  had  put  to  sleep  against  Walewski' s 
feet  he  began  chuckling  almost  deliriously.  He  shook 
all  over:  his  eyes  danced  and  laughed,  and  he  seemed 
altogether  the  lightest  hearted,  best  natured  big  brother 
that  ever  lived.  It  made  more  strange  the  sudden 
plunge  of  his  laughing  face  into  shadowy  wildness  as 
Walewski  came  out  on  the  platform.  The  gaunt  figure 


30       STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

with  its  bony  face  and  reddish  Tartarian  eyes  seemed 
to  stiffen  everybody. 

Louise  had  got  tiny  Savo  beside  her  on  the  bench, 
and  the  little  fellow  with  the  white  skin  drawn  too 
tightly  over  his  cheekbones  looked  a  little  frightened, 
seemed  anxious  to  get  back  to  Varsh. 

"Well,"  said  Varika,  "I  guess  we  go." 

Stash  looked  longingly  from  the  desolate  hotel  porch 
to  Varilta's  wagon.  Louise  got  up  to  go,  giving  Savo's 
hand  a  last  squeeze ;  and  the  little  fellow  began  to  cry — 
no  knowing  why.  ...  It  was  in  the  air.  ...  A  sud- 
den gust  of  wind  sent  the  leaves  rushing  and  banged 
the  lobby  doors.  Walewski's  powerful,  melancholy  fig- 
ure was  a  piece  with  the  Autumn  morning,  which  had 
reached  that  stage  when  morning  at  a  touch — at  a 
sound — at  a  mere  nothing — has  changed  to  afternoon. 

"Come  ride  in  wid  me !"  Varika  nodded  to  Stash. 

The  boy  glanced  eagerly  at  Andre  and  Louise  and 
sprang  ahead.  But  Walewski,  who  had  drawn  near, 
caught  him  firmly  by  the  shoulder.  .  .  . 

In  a  flash  Varsh  had  flung  himself  in  front  of  the 
bony  powerful  figure  and  shouted :  "Give  him  loose  of 
dere!"  There  was  no  mellow  hoarseness  in  his  voice 
now,  but  a  rushing  anger. 

The  gaunt  man  glanced  quizzically  into  the  flashing 
young  face,  as  if  debating;  his  reddish  eyes  throbbed. 
With  a  spring,  Varsh  struck  the  big  arm  savagely  from 
Stash's  shoulder.  The  big  man  lifted  his  cane,  making 
it  whistle.  Varsh  took  a  stiff-legged  strut  that  flung 
him  under  the  man's  chin.  He  was  ready  at  a  sound 
to  spring  at  Walewski's  throat. 

"None  of  dat  cane  monkey-business,  ol'  Whaleback!" 
Varika  shouted.  "Dat  won't  pay !" 

Great-uncle  Step  turned  toward  the  galleries,  and 


STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY       31 

Stash  hopped  into  the  wagon.  He  exulted  in  his  deliv- 
erance. He  could  now  land  the  girls  on  their  own 
step,  and  round  out  the  great  scheme  of  the  day.  He 
might  even  be  asked  to  stay  over  night  at  Fentree's. 
The  thought  of  the  untold  fun  that  would  be  his  made 
him  chuckle  greedily. 

Varika  whipped  up  the  horses  and  they  spun  down 
the  road.  The  road-map  trip  was  reeling  to  a  splendid 
close.  Stash  looked  back.  He  saw  Varsh  holding 
Savo  by  the  hand  and  chuckling  vaguely,  a  little  lone- 
somely,  then  swinging  Savo  up  in  his  arms  to  give  the 
little  fellow  a  better  look.  The  big  boy's  mellow  hoarse 
shout  of  good-bye  came  drifting  to  them,  like  a  wist- 
ful echo  sighing  on  the  Autumn  air.  And  that  sighing 
song  in  Stash's  heart  woke  to  grieve  and  sting.  He 
plucked  Varika's  arm:  "I  gotto  go  back!" 

"Why,  Stash,"  Andre  protested,  "you've  got  to  stay 
over !  There's  your  room  you  had — and  Dad  will  take 
us  to  the  Savoy  to-night — as  sure  as  anything!" 

He  hesitated  a  moment.  But  words  as  plain  as  a 
guidepost  said :  "Go  back."  He  shook  his  head  inde- 
pendently: "No,  sir — I  say  good-bye!" 

"Say  good-bye  again  to  Varsh  and  Savo!"  the  girls 
called  to  him.  He  stood  in  the  Autumn  dust  and  sun- 
shine waving  to  them  with  his  dashing  green  fedora 
until  they  had  got  too  far  to  be  distinguished  from  road 
and  trees. 

CHAPTER  III 


Yet  Stash  soon  came  to  the  big  house  in  town  once 
more.     And  it  was  none  too  soon.     The  sadness  that 


32       STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

had  made  little  Savo  cry  was  a  sign  of  coming  fever. 
Stash  had  caught  it,  and  fell  sick  immediately  after 
Fentree  brought  him  home. 

Sometimes  he  cried  out  about  Savo;  they  dared  tell 
him  then  nothing  of  the  little  fellow's  death.  But 
oftenest  he  called  for  big  Varsh.  At  times  in  his  de- 
lirium he  laughed  and  shouted  confidently  .  .  .  "Oh, 
Varsh,  say,  Varsh!"  And  then  again  he  whimpered  for 
the  big  brother,  who  would  always  drop  anything  to 
help  him.  .  .  .  "Varsh!  ...  Oh,  Varsh!" 

.  .  .  And  Varsh  came  to  him!  ...  at  last.  .  .  . 
In  a  dream.  .  .  .  Stash  was  lost  in  a  great  black  ship 
filled  with  music.  ...  A  terrifying  sweet  melody  aloft 
in  its  darkness  drove  him  on!  ...  stumbling  .  .  . 
crying,  running  on!  ...  until  at  last  he  was  drawn 
through  a  bulkhead  by  a  kindly,  kingly  fisherman.  .  .  . 
And  that  smiling  kingly  fellow — oh !  such  happiness  as 
Stash  had  never  known! — that  fellow  was  bratter 
Varsh,  grown  big  and  splendid!  .  .  .  Down  on  the 
shining  green  water  he  helped  him  into  a  small  boat  and 
sent  him  off  across  the  marshes  to  a  gleaming  orchard 
shore,  where  little  Marika  Varika  waved  to  him  in 
wistful  dimness.  .  .  .  He  thought  often  about  this 
dream  as  he  grew  better,  wondering  at  its  terrible  real- 
ness  and  its  strange  heart-ache  that  made  him  want  to 
cry  for  bratter  Varsh. 

The  evening  his  fever  broke,  Mrs.  Fentree  called 
the  news  to  Fentree,  waiting  in  the  dusk  outside  to  hear. 
.  .  .  The  lawyer  called  loudly  "Better?  .  .  .  Fine!" 
for  the  sake  of  a  dark  boyish  figure  that  sprang  from 
the  bushes  in  Shieling's  yard  across  the  street — his 
peaked  hat  lurching  into  light  at  lamp-lit  corners.  Fen- 
tree had  called  the  news  aloud  to  this  lurking  figure  for 
three  evenings,  for  he  felt  certain  that  it  was  Varsh. 


STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY        33 

The  lawyer  made  up  his  mind  to  solve  his  perplexi- 
ties about  Stash' s  future  by  keeping  the  dark-eyed  boy 
as  his  own.  To  think  of  letting  Stash  go  again  gave 
him  an  odd  aching  feeling,  as  if  he  had  lost  forever  his 
chance  to  do  something  fine  for  those  crossroads 
friends.  He  hated  to  admit  that  the  ache  was  a  long- 
ing for  Stash  himself.  Yet  a  realization  of  this  was 
brought  home  keenly  enough  by  Marynia  Plazarski's 
unexpected  letter.  It  was  mailed  from  Detroit  and 
read: 

"...  I  am  so  lonely  here  now  I  think  of  that  little 
Savo  that  died.  Thank  you  for  telling  me.  I  know 
you  did  all  for  him.  It  seems  they  are  all  gone  for- 
ever, because  Varsh  will  go  out  to  be  a  man  soon.  And 
perhaps  just  that  Stash  could  come  to  me.  I  want 
him.  Maybe  you  say  Why  ? — when  you  left  him  ?  But 
because — what  I  hate  to  tell  you — Jan  and  Boly  said  I 
was  not,  what  you  say — fit!  No  good!  Why  was 
that, — when  it  wasn't  true?  I  can  never  know!  ..." 

Fentree  knew!  He  knew  that  "Old  Whaleback" 
Walewski  had  written  letters  to  Bolish  in  prison  imply- 
ing her  unfaithfulness.  He  knew  that  Jan  and  Boly 
had  discovered  Walewski's  duplicity  too  late — when 
Boly's  heart  and  mind  were  already  crushed — and  Jan 
could  only  look  back  on  their  old  happiness  in  de- 
spair. He  saw  that  Marynia' s  hand  had  shaken  with 
the  hatred  of  writing  those  last  words.  Strangely 
enough,  his  own  hand  shook  as  he  wrote  her — the  only 
thing  that  could  be  written — that  she  should  have  her 
boy. 

II 

To  Stash  the  promise  of  that  trip  came  like  the 
dawn  of  his  dreams.  For  ever  since  a  tiny  fellow  he 


34       STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

had  believed  that  somewhere  something  strange  and 
glorious  was  going  to  happen  to  him.  .  .  .  That  in 
some  city  of  blue  streets  a  wonderful  enterprise  await- 
ed him.  .  .  .  Someone  would  meet  him  there  .  .  . 
smiling  dark  faces  like  Uncle  Jan's  would  flash  to  his. 
.  .  .  His  jumbled  boyish  brain  grew  vague.  .  .  .  He 
was  only  certain  that  they  would  go  on  ...  to  some 
unknown  climax  of  grandeur!  It  was  all  confusedly 
connected  with  the  stories  he  had  heard  of  the  blue 
Straits  City — Detroit — where  all  had  been  so  happy 
that  the  name  rung  like  a  song. 

Now  that  light-hearted  Bolish  was  a  crazy  wanderer ; 
now  that  proud  Jan  was  dead,  and  little  Savo  gone; 
Stash  was  about  all  that  was  left  of  those  gay  Plazar- 
skis  to  follow  a  dream  of  splendor. 

And  this  he  would  do  most  surely.  The  dream 
might  change ; — but  the  enterprise  would  draw  him  on 
to  find  it — to  find  it  at  last. 


BOOK  TWO:    THE  DAWN  OF 
SPLENDID  EMPRISE 

CHAPTER  I 


They  clattered  down  to  the  station  in  a  hack — Fen- 
tree,  Stash  and  Louise, — for  there  were  no  street  cars 
on  Wacaser  in  those  days.  Louise  pointed  out  the 
woodsiest  of  the  passing  lawns  as  the  Park  place  where 
Rose  Maddon  lived.  And  Stash  pictured  her  again — in 
spite  of  himself — as  a  little  girl  all  pink.  The  idea  ex- 
cited him.  It  made  a  rosy  figure  to  weave  into  the 
thronging  patterns  that  the  big  adventure  was  bring- 
ing him. 

A  long  day  in  Chicago  surfeited  him  with  patterns, 
however,  and  he  found  it  good  to  lounge  in  the  dusky 
gloom  of  the  Lambert  Lines  office,  where  stupendous 
steamers  with  great  black  funnels  stood  out  from  all 
the  walls.  He  wished  that  Louise  wouldn't  fall  asleep 
against  him,  and  decided  that  girls  ought  not  to  be 
taken  on  trips  ...  if  they  always  had  to  fall  asleep. 
.  .  .  The  blazing  on  of  lights  woke  him  up!  ...  He 
saw  a  man  with  thin  dark  head  at  the  ticket  window, 
and  pretended  that  head  didn't  belong  to  Fentree,  in 
order  to  feel  excited  and  alone  and  that  this  stranger 
might  turn  out  to  be  ...  Mist'  Fen!  by  God! — com- 
ing back  with  the  tickets! 

35 


36       STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

Fentree  caught  the  full  impact  of  Stash's  flashing 
dark  gaze,  and  reflected  for  the  fiftieth  time  that  it 
was  these  peculiar  black  eyes  under  the  light  hair  that 
had  attracted  him  from  the  first. 


ii 

Stash  clung  to  Fentree  as  they  surged  up  the  gang- 
way. Smoking  men  and  perfumed  women  jostled  him. 
In  a  crash  of  brass  the  orchestra  began — and  Stash 
trembled  with  the  mystery  that  seemed  sweeping  him 
on  into  the  musical  ship  of  his  delirium. 

Fentree  took  them  down  the  gallery  deck  to  watch 
the  breakwater  lantern  sliding  back — back !  The  misty 
purple  of  the  Lake  drew  them  on;  the  chill  of  late 
season  sounding  in  the  swish-and-toss  alongside.  Above 
their  heads  a  majestic  thunder  towered  into  the  dark 
of  coming  night. 

Stash  felt  that  the  great  adventure  had  begun.  Then 
something  happened  exactly  like  his  visions  of  brave 
encounters.  A  great  burly  figure  swung  Fentree  to  the 
cabin  window  light  and  coughed  out  gruffly: 

"Fine  it  is! — Fentree!     I  thought  so!" 

"Mac! — McCandlish!"  Fentree  gripped  the  big 
hand. 

"How's  Durand  City?  .  .  .  These  spunkies  yours? 
.  .  .  Yes,  yes.  .  .  .  Detroit?  Bound  back  there  now 
.  .  .  myself.  .  .  .  Your  brother  livin'  there  yet?  I 
never  see  him.  .  .  .  Fact  I  steer  away  from  such  peo- 
ple ...  reason  good!  .  .  .  when  I  get  in  a  new  line, 
ticket  brokerin',  I  can  face  'em.  .  .  ."  His  choking 
voice  shuffled  on  in  huge  asthmatic  volume. 

Stash  was  fascinated  by  that  commanding  voice.  He 
felt  that  he  would  follow  the  man  anywhere  he  sa»4, 


THE  DAWN  OF  SPLENDID  EMPRISE      37 

for  great  things  would  be  sure  to  happen.  He  won- 
dered about  those  people  great  Mac  was  afraid  to 
face.  .  .  .  Maybe  they  were  too  many  for  him, — if  he 
had  someone  to  help  .  .  .  Stash  himself  was  ready 
to  join — if  Fentree  would !  Fentree  was  speaking. 

"Why  don't  you  close  your  poker  club,  Mac,  before 
the  gambling  squad  closes  it  for  you?" 

"I  know! — none  better!  Young  Bannerman,  that 
owed  the  club  a  long  chalk,  is  spierin'  round  to  tip  the 
police  for  a  raid,  I'm  hearin'.  I  made  him  mortgage 
his  Elizabeth  Street  playhouse,  and  bid  it  in  on  forced 
sale!  Bahoo! — now  I've  got  it " 

"Run  it !"  said  Fentree,  "the  Macs  have  won  out  in 
the  theatre  line  before  this.  Chicago  McVickers,  you 
know.  .  .  ." 

"I've  thought  of  that,  Fen!"  the  great  voice  rum- 
bled eagerly.  "Buildin's  been  closed  a  year.  ...  I 
was  in  one  day.  .  .  .  Smelly  .  .  .  mice  .  .  .  tar- 
nished gold.  .  .  .  Had  an  attraction  for  me  though! 
.  .  .  Right  then!"  He  glared  at  Fentree  with  watery 
gray  eyes  which  glistened  in  the  cabin  lights.  "Right 
then!" 

"I'll  look  up  your  new  fire  ordinances,"  said  Fen- 
tree, "before  I  go  back.  And  bring  round  a  wild  good- 
natured  fellow  that  ought  to  know  the  theatre  busi- 
ness— Jack  Cardoul — he's  a  violin  at  the  Fronte- 
nac,  I  think.  Used  to  play  at  the  Durand  Savoy." 

"Do  no  harm!"  McCandlish  grunted  his  thanks. 
"Bahoo !  let's  go  in — the  we'ans  are  gettin'  cold." 

in 

Before  Stash  knew  what  had  happened,  an  enor- 
mous warm  paw  had  enveloped  his  small  fist,  and  big 


38        STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

Mac  was  leading  him  and  Louise  in  to  the  warmth  and 
enameled  spaces  and  dream-like  stairways  of  the  gal- 
lery cabin.  In  an  instant  Stash's  liking  had  sprung  to 
worship.  The  big  man  had  not  spoken  a  word  to  him, 
but  Stash  looked  forward  to  that  event,  and  practised 
his  good  blunt  name  under  his  breath  as  he  lay  wide 
awake  in  his  snug  upper.  .  .  .  "Mac — Mac — Mist' 
Mac — you  betcha,  Mist'  Mac!  .  .  .  dat's  right, 
Mac!  .  .  ." 

This  practise  dispelled  his  queer  night  thoughts  about 
the  Koban  people,  and  drifted  him  into  the  thrumming 
darkness  of  floating  dreams  .  .  .  where  Varsh  came 
to  him  as  the  kingly  fisherman,  helping  him  away  from 
the  flaunting  sweet  music,  over  the  lonesome  water, 
where  the  marshes  spread  into  Koban  Lake. 


IV 

Stash  clattered  up  the  gleaming  stairways  of  the 
slumberous  water  palace  that  had  been  driving  on  all 
night  long — all  night  long.  He  exulted  in  the  sensa- 
tion of  being  half  lost  in  such  a  palace ;  yet  he  was  glad 
to  find  Fentree  waiting  for  him  on  deck. 

The  lake  smote  his  eyes  with  sparkles.  Far  off  on 
the  glittering  horizon  he  saw  a  faint  trail  of  smoke. 
Behind  him  boomed  a  grumpy  voice : 

"Come  away,  now! — That's  only  the  ghost  smoke  of 
the  steamer  Lady  Island  that  ran  on  the  beach 
a'burninV 

Stash  turned  to  look  into  McCandlish's  watery  good- 
natured  eyes,  and  summoning  his  courage  with  a  rush : 
"Say,  Mac,  say — is  dere  a  lady  on  it !" 

Big  Mac  choked  like  a  throttled  bass  woodwind — 
"Taroobahoo!"  and  invited  them  huskily  to  breakfast 


THE  DAWN  OF  SPLENDID  EMPRISE      39 

with  him.  "Disjune  on  me — all  three!  On  me — all 
three!"  This  jingling  witticism  amounted  to  very  lit- 
tle in  Louise's  estimation,  and  she  wished  she  dared 
show  him  so  with  a  blank  absorbed  face  like  Stash  did. 

After  a  white-fish  breakfast  McCandlish  took  the 
lad  for  a  look  down  the  glory  hole.  Peering  deep  into 
a  pit  of  clashing  furnace  doors  and  slice-bars,  Stash 
saw  men — glaring  and  gleaming  in  that  furnace  cave. 
His  heart  quaked  with  their  torture,  which  seemed  to 
his  burning  fancy  a  horror  wrapped  in  red  glory. 

Somehow  he  couldn't  shake  off  the  sickening  queer- 
ness  of  it  until  the  crowds  gathered  on  the  stairways 
to  pass  the  stewards'  jingling  countersign — "Stateroom 
keys  here,  please — stateroom  keys  here,  please!" — and, 
pressed  close  against  McCandlish's  huge  vest,  he  felt 
the  rumbling  of  energetic  functions  in  that  bulwark 
and  thought  with  a  chuckle  that  "Dose  are  de  big  en- 
gines of  him!" 

Passing  down  the  dock  at  last,  he  looked  back  at  the 
boat's  deserted  majesty.  "Good-bye,  Mist'  Boat!"  he 
murmured  to  himself.  "You're  de  slickest  ol'  boat  I 
ever  travel  on,  Mist'  Boat!  .  .  .  goo'bye  .  .  .  goo'- 
bye!  .  .  ." 

CHAPTER  II 


The  City.  .  .  .  After  the  morning's  sleepy  train 
ride  Stash  found  the  woodsy  Sunday  quiet  of  it  like  a 
dream.  .  .  .  Detroit.  .  .  . 

They  said  good-bye  to  big  Mac  on  Broad  Chandos 
Street,  and  Stash  watched  his  dwindling  burly  figure 
in  sadness.  He  had  schemed  up  some  parting  smart- 


40       STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

ness:  "Well,  Mac,  we  see  you  again  sometime,  I 
guess!  .  .  ."  But  a  real  pang  of  regret  choked  off 
this  bluster. 

Andrew  Fentree's  house  greeted  them  with  high 
white  walls,  a  faint  smell  of  Sunday  roast,  and  a  clock 
that  ticked  "State — room — keys — here — please!" — as 
if  they  were  still  steaming  on  in  some  high  silent  ship. 

It  was  a  comfort  to  Stash  to  find  that  Louise's  Uncle 
Andrew  had  a  red  nose  beak  like  the  genial  faces  on 
Slivovice  Liquor  calendars.  He  felt  on  good  terms 
with  him  right  off;  and  while  he  was  making  the 
acquaintance  of  Noll,  Arch  and  Tav,  Fentree  hurried 
off  to  a  sombre  red  brick  row  on  John  R.  Street,  where 
Marynia  Plazarski  lived. 

She  turned  so  sad  when  she  saw  him  alone  that  he 
hurried  to  explain:  "He's  here.  I  didn't  bring  him 
along.  Talk  it  over  first,  I  thought/'  Yet  a  lump  of 
bitterness  rose  in  his  throat.  He  had  hoped  things 
could  be  adjusted  without  the  transfer;  and  he  found 
himself  incensed  with  her  dark  irresponsible  prettiness. 

"He  doesn't  seem  to  be  your  boy,"  he  spoke  with 
tentative  antagonism,  "he  hasn't  your  hair — nor  chin 
— his  eyes — they're  dark " 

"Oh,  give  him! — "  she  said  half  whimsically,  but 
sadly — "eyes  like  me !" 

A  merry  whistling  rang  in  the  drab  little  hall,  and 
an  extravagantly  slouchy,  dark  fellow  appeared.  It 
was  Cardoul,  who  roomed  around  the  corner  and  spent 
his  idle  time  with  Marynia.  "Hello,  Fentree!"  he 
spoke  cordially.  "It's  been  a  long  time,  heh?" 

The  lawyer  gripped  the  thin  nervous  hand:  "Do 
you  know  Dunk  McCandlish,  Jack,  that  owns  the  Tun- 
nel theatre? — He's  nosing  the  idea  of  opening  it.  If 
he  can  get  someone  to  subscribe  a  few  blocks  of  the- 


THE  DAWN  OF  SPLENDID  EMPRISE      41 

atre  brains,  he'd  underwrite  it,  I  think.  I  mentioned 
you." 

"Fine!  Where  does  the  artless  old  muskelunge 
lurk?" 

"I'll  fix  that  up  this  afternoon.  .  .  .I've  got  a  con- 
fession— "  turning  to  Marynia,  " — I  haven't  told  Stash 
anything.  And  how  I'm  going  to  let  him  know?  .  .  . 
I  could  say — 'You're  going  to  spend  a  visit  with 
your ' " 

"His  matka!"  she  whispered  angrily,  as  if  chagrined 
over  how  little  it  could  mean.  "You  think  I'm  mean  to 
want  him  now! — as  if  I  wouldn'  have  kep'  them  all — if 
Jan  an'  Boly  hadn'  treat  me  so! — like  saying  I  wasn' 
fit  to  have  them! — like  I  could  hurt  those  little  boys! 
.  .  .  why,  I  donno! — I  don'  know!" 

"Why!"  snarled  Cardoul,  his  face  twitching,  "be- 
cause that  old  uncle  of  yours  carried  talk  about  you ! — 
Old  Walewski!  He  wanted  you! — thought  he  could 
get  you  and  Boly's  property  he  was  trustee  of  .  .  . 
his  Detroit  land!" 

Fentree  sprang  up:  "I'll  get  the  boy  .  .  ."  And 
turning  to  Cardoul  .  .  .  "I'll  see  McCandlish  about 
that  business — on  my  way  back  here." 

Fentree  was  as  good  as  his  word,  and  a  couple  hours 
later  stopped  at  the  Bois  Blanc  Club  and  left  the  two 
children  on  the  brownstone  porch  while  he  penetrated 
to  McCandlish's  dark  quarters  in  the  rear. 

n 

Stash  and  Louise  stood  on  the  high  portico  steps, 
silent  before  the  wonder  of  falling  evening  in  a  great 
strange  town — the  delicious  alarm  of  unknown  bells 
and  far  off  waking  lights.  Absorbed  in  these  marvels, 


42        STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

it  was  hardly  strange  that  a  black-topped  wagon  failed 
to  startle  them,  until  men  began  to  post  the  gambling 
club. 

How  they  got  to  the  sidewalk  they  scarcely  remem- 
bered. "Take  the  cab  to  Andrew's!"  Fentree  had 
called  as  he  was  hustled  by.  .  .  .  They  scurried  across 
to  the  club  cab  stand.  .  .  .  But  the  cabman  had  been 
swept  along  in  the  raid. 

A  tremor  ran  across  Louise's  lips.  Stash  saw  that 
in  a  minute  she  would  be  sobbing.  He  bent  to  pick  up 
the  lines,  and  the  touch  of  leather  thrilled  him  with  a 
tremendous  idea.  He  would  drive  to  Uncle  Andrew's. 

He  climbed  up  with  such  evident  skill  that  Louise 
smiled  up  at  him  with  tearful  starry  eyes.  In  a  scram- 
bling hurry  he  faked  the  reins  around  the  whipstock, 
and  leaning  way  down  .  .  .  lifted  her  somehow  to  the 
seat  beside  him. 

She  held  the  box-rail  tight  and  sat  back  prim  and 
awed.  Stash  gave  a  hoarse  grunt,  and  shook  out  the 
lines.  An  echoing  clock-clock  of  massive  hoofs  rolled 
down  the  avenue  beneath  them. 

"We  turn  from  down  dis  street,  didn'  we?"  Stash 
observed  in  confident  huskiness.  "Dis  is  one  de  slickes' 
ol'  streets  I  ever  travel!"  He  wheeled  the  pair  into 
one  of  those  wide  sweeping  foyers — lifted  to  some- 
thing splendid  by  the  quality  of  the  evening,  by  the 
silvery  twilight  that  seemed  to  explore  the  lake  city 
with  a  dying  radiance. 

"Ah-h-h,  you  betcha!"  muttered  Stash — apropos  of 
nothing  in  particular. 

Slowly  drifting  towards  them  like  black  gondolas 
came  swaying  carriages  that  left  the  memory  of  in- 
quiring or  indifferent  stares.  Beyond  and  ever  beyond 
them  was  the  night  ocean  of  green  sky  deepening  to 


THE  DAWN  OF  SPLENDID  EMPRISE      43 

blue.  Dusk  was  piling  up  in  the  courts  and  angles  of 
great  houses;  and  cropping  out  here  and  there  were 
polka  dots  of  pale  lemon  and  lavender,  which  spun 
aureoles  for  themselves — shimmering,  shimmering,  in 
the  shadows.  .  .  . 

Once  they  were  accosted  by  a  strange  man  at  a  street 
corner:  "Were  you  goin'  there?"  He  looked  like  a 
suspicious  case  to  Stash — who  growled  to  deepen  his 
voice,  and  shot  out  hoarsely :  "Takin5  de  horses  round 
to  de  stable  for  Tony !" 

Its  instant  success  renewed  his  confidence: 
"Ah-h-h,  you  betcha !"  he  muttered  huskily. 

Before  a  spired  house  of  French  tourelles  they  were 
hailed  by  a  man  with  two  eager  little  girls  in  a  dos-a- 
dos.  The  lighted  house,  the  friendly  hail  of  the  jolly 
father,  excited  hot  hopes  in  Louise's  heart.  How  she 
longed  to  stop!  .  .  .  But  Stash  flung  off  the  curt  for- 
mula with  throaty  pride :  "Drivin'  round  to  de  stable 
for  Tony!" 

It  struck  the  mark  with  perfect  accuracy.  The 
father  subsided,  the  girls  relaxed  their  eager  interest, 
and  the  warm  lights  of  the  big  tourelled  chateau  fell 
behind. 

As  they  floated  on  Stash  drew  a  breath  of  elation: 
for  they  were  surely  on  that  wide  street — Broad  Chan- 
dos — that  led  to  Andrew  Fentree's.  At  each  crossing 
avenue  gallant  marches  of  friendly  lights  seemed  to 
fall  away  to  some  dusky  lake  or  sea  surrounding  a 
carnival  island  city  awaiting  actors  that  never  came. 
Arc  lamps  gleamed  close,  and  died  behind ;  pianos  flut- 
tered bright  farewells — tinkled  thin — and  dimmed 
away.  Suddenly  Stash  turned  to  Louise,  ready  to  stam- 
mer: "I  guess  we're  lost!"  But  the  dry  words  stuck 


44        STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

in  his  throat — for  Louise's  head  was  swaying  gentty 
towards  him.  .  .  .  Asleep. 

He  bit  his  lip  hard  and  let  a  hoarse  sob  escape.  The 
sound  of  it  was  so  sickening  that  he  jerked  the  lines 
and  started  on,  clinging  to  the  notion  that  he  must 
turn  right  corners  .  .  .  turn  right  corners.  .  .  .  Find- 
ing comfort  in  Louise's  company  ...  he  let  his  head 
tilt  against  her  .  .  .  and  fell  asleep.  .  .  .  The  horses 
cruised  down  the  cobbles  of  a  water  street,  and  nosed 
each  other  into  the  lee  of  an  old  transit  shed  for  a 
snooze.  .  .  . 

in 

Stash  opened  his  eyes  to  a  radiant  Autumn  morning. 
The  straits — a  grand  trunk  road  of  sliding  blue — made 
a  slop-slapping  noise  in  the  piling.  A  dusky,  sailing 
barge  like  a  monster  black  bat  surged  down  river, 
and  Stash  glimpsed  a  tiny  rusty  man  on  deck  pulling 
down  the  green  port  light.  Patterns  more  stirring  he 
had  never  seen. 

Louise  awoke  and  stared  amazed.  Stash  touched 
her  gently  and  grinned:  "It's  me!" 

"Oh "  Louise  smiled  wanly,  not  much  reassured. 

It  took  little  time  for  Stash  to  persuade  her  to  a 
new  plan — "to  let  dose  horses  take  de  head  an  go 
home."  He  began  backing  and  filling,  with  morning 
gruffness  in  his  voice. 

Out  of  the  lobby-like  chill  of  the  dusky  water  street 
they  climbed,  emerging  on  the  shining  desert  of  Jeffer- 
son. With  hypnotic  delight  Stash  watched  the  com- 
placent pair  swing  on,  twitching  heads  together  at  one 
corner  and  another  for  a  trifling  consultation. 

From  down  in  the  east,  through  the  pallid  shining 
haze,  came  traveling  the  antique  clangor  of  the  city 


THE  DAWN  OF  SPLENDID  EMPRISE      45 

hall  clock — chiming  seven  as  Stash  and  Louise  on  their 
derelict  cab  rolled  into  a  corner  livery.  The  stable 
man,  after  looking  up  Andrew  Fentree  in  the  Direc- 
tory, hopped  aboard  and  drove  them  to  Broad  Chandos. 
In  the  excitement  of  reunion  he  slipped  away.  .  .  . 

Big  Noll  Fentree,  swinging  off  to  work,  raised  a 
shout — and  the  family  turned  to  see  Fentree  coming  at 
a  run!  He  had  been  held  incommunicado  all  night, 
and  after  his  dismissal — for  he  had  easily  proved  that 
he  was  not  a  club  habitue — he  had  caught  the  first 
street  car. 

He  spoke  now  to  Stash  with  a  stern  yet  tender 
stress :  "I  ought  to  drive  round  right  now  to  John  R. 
Street — she'll  be  worrying — your  mother,  Stash — that 
you  havn't  seen  in  so  long — but  I  know  you'll  like  he* 
fine!  .  .  ." 

He  clambered  to  the  box,  where  Stash  still  sat, 
gathered  up  the  reins. 


CHAPTER  III 


As  they  turned  the  corner  of  White  Woods  into 
John  R.  they  caught  Cardoul  leaving  his  rooming 
house,  and  took  him  aboard.  It  was  just  a  block  and 
a  half  farther  to  Marynia's  "furnished  upper"  flat.  And 
desolate  furnishings  they  were. 

Marynia,  however,  was  flushed  and  vivid  in  a  re- 
vere neck  frill  of  fresh  wrhite.  She  gave  Cardoul  a 
warning  look :  "Uncle  Step  is  here !" — then  turned  to 
Stash  with  startled  anxious  smiles — running  through  «i 
dozen  wistful  experiments  and  quirks  of  eagerness. 


46        STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

The  boy  looked  at  her  in  dubious  wonder;  when 
Fentree  said:  "Stash,  this  is " 

"Rynia!"  she  protested  fearfully,  as  if  someone 
might  thrust  formality  between  them. 

"You  tell — Rynia — "  said  the  lawyer,  "how  you  got 
Louise  safe  away  when  I  was  ferreted  out  at  the  Bois 
Blanc  Club  last  night." 

Stash  stood  on  one  desolate  leg  and  then  the  other : 
"You  tell  in  dere,  w'ile  I  watch  de  horses."  That 
pretty,  strange  person,  Rynia,  fascinated  him  as  one 
who  owned  some  control  over  him;  yet  something 
about  her  face  made  him  sad  and  wistful  and  dreary — 
as  did  the  dark  hall. 

They  left  this  dark  hallway  and  moved  into  the  room 
where  Uncle  Step  Walewski  stood.  His  purplish  thin 
face  with  pointed  insolent  cheekbones  made  the  room 
seem  cold. 

"Can  I  help  you  with  a  hot  cup  of  tea,  Uncle  Step  ?" 
Marynia  locked  her  hands  and  shivered  realistically. 
The  room  was  in  fact  a  little  chill  and  f rowsty  with  stale 
tobacco.  Walewski  pulled  out  a  cigarette  and — nod- 
ding briefly  to  her — moved  over  to  the  crazed  green- 
tiled  grate.  He  spit  the  end  in  the  ashes  and  began 
deliberately  to  smoke.  Without  a  word  he  had  taken 
possession  of  the  room. 

Fentree  nodded  briefly  to  him ;  he  could  easily  credit 
that  tremendous  iron  hulk  of  a  family  manager  with  a 
careless  stern  desire  for  Marynia  which  would  sweep 
aside  anything  in  order  to  gain  her — and  Bolish's  prop- 
erty. He  had  planned  such  formidable  schemes  as  the 
Durand  Lake-level  Canal,  and  lost  in  the  gamble  his 
string  of  whaleback  freighters — which  had  given  him 
his  name  of  Old  Whaleback. 


THE  DAWN  OF  SPLENDID  EMPRISE      47 

"And  was  it  so  great  a  story  about  last  night?" 
Marynia  glanced  eagerly  at  Stash. 

"Oh,  well — I  should  say!"  Fentree  exclaimed  un- 
easily. "You  see " 

But  at  this  moment  the  telephone  rang  and  Cardoul 
called  in  from  the  hall — "Fentree — it's  you! — fellow 
with  a  whiskey  throat,  I  should  think." 

Fentree  was  not  surprised  to  catch  McCandlish's 
voice  in  burly  tumult:  "Listen,  man.  .  .  .  I've  a 
chance  to  cleek  onto  the  Lady  Island  that  ran  on  Cut- 
ler's Beach!  .  .  .  Consideration?  .  .  .  Six  ears  of 
flint  corn! — Nothing!  .  .  .  Hendrie  that  owns  the 
option  is  afraid  of  Old  Whaleback  that's  clubbin'  him 
with  some  verbal  contract  threat.  .  .  .  What?  .  .  . 
He's  there  now?  .  .  .  Hold  him !  Make  a  trap  to  stay 
him  there  till  you  can  get  down  to  Hcndrie's  shop  and 
show  Hendrie  how  we  can  lift  the  thing  off  his  shoul- 
ders into  a  syndicate!  .  .  .  And  I've  got  planned  a 
share  in  it  for  the  little  lady  of  yours  that  near  got  lost 
by  me !  .  .  .  Your  little  lady.  .  .  .  Old  Hendrie  bailed 
me  off  this  morning  and  I  owe  it  to  him  too !  .  .  ." 

Fentree  consulted  swiftly  with  Cardoul,  and  prom- 
ised to  meet  McCandlish  in  ten  minutes.  At  the  stair 
head  he  caught  a  chance  to  whisper  to  Marynia — "Hold 
him  twenty  minutes  if  you  can!"  He  sped  down  the 
stairs. 

But  that  gaunt  family  patron  left  his  tea  half  drunk, 
remembering  suddenly  that  he  had  deserted  his  cane  at 
Prinzep's  Bathhouse.  He  smelled  a  rat.  He  could 
never  trust  that  man  Fentree — never  since  Jan's  death. 

II 

Marynia  followed  him  down  to  the  street,  trying 
desperately  to  think.  .  .  .  She  caught  sight  of  Stash 


48        STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

mounted  lonesomely  on  the  box,  and  an  inspiration 
came  to  her.  .  .  . 

Fentree,  looking-  anxiously  back  at  the  little  group, 
found  it  scarfed  with  blanching  Autumn  sunshine — and, 
while  he  peered  to  make  sure — he  saw  Marynia  spring 
into  the  cab  like  a  boy — and  Walewski's  harsh  hulking 
figure  following  her! 

With  eyes  beckoning  merrily  she  had  said — "Well, 
come — let  Stash  drive  us  to  Prinzep's,  Uncle  Step — and 
we  finish  our  visit !" 

In  the  close  cabined  interior  she  leaned  forward 
eagerly:  "It  was  so  good  you  came !  .  .  .  This  morn- 
ing ...  I  wanted  .  .  .  just  a  little  time  alone  with 
you!  .  .  ."  Outside  a  mist  in  haunting  undulations 
was  invading  the  town;  a  mere  hint  of  damp  chill 
sighed  in  the  ah'.  Under  the  unseen  driver's  impetus 
the  cab  was  lumbering — rumbling  fast.  .  .  .  "To  talk 
about  those  good  times  way  back  .  .  .  w'en  we  were 
so  happy !"  Her  dark  eyes  flashed. 

Walewski  lit  a  cigarette — with  corded,  big  purple 
hands:  "So  you're  sick  of  him  at  last?  .  .  .  Car- 
doul." 

She  clenched  her  hands:  "No,  it's  something  dif- 
ferent .  .  .  that  I'm  burning  to  think  about!"  she 
gasped  with  a  white  smile;  "it's  all  the  fine  enemy 
you've  been  under  your  fine  way !  .  .  .  .An'  all  the  ruin 
you  tried  to  make  for  me  .  .  .  an'  all  of  us  you  could 
get  .  .  .  Boly,  Jan,  my  boys,  that  Savo  baby!  .  .  . 
way,  way  back!"  Tears  stood  in  her  eyes,  tears  of 
blazing  fury. 

He  pressed  towards  the  door :  "I'm  getting  out,"  he 
muttered. 

"Would  you  believe ! "  she  panted  hoarsely,  "but 


THE  DAWN  OF  SPLENDID  EMPRISE      49 

I'm  going  to  keep  you !"  She  pulled  down  the  sash  and 
called— "Drive— fast!" 

Frowning  wearily,  he  put  out  one  iron  hand  to  take 
her  wrist.  But  just  as  his  fingers  were  closing  she 
gave  a  sharp  pivoting  gesture  that  freed  it;  and  the 
cab  lurching  at  the  moment  threw  him  against  the  seat. 

Marynia  flashed  a  look  of  triumph  into  his  face, 
laughing:  "And  that  boy — ah,  he  makes  them  go — 
fly !  That's  probably  the  kind  of  boy  he  is !  And  that 
Varsh! — I  heard  he  was  too  strong  for  you  to  run! 
.  .  .  Not  like  Jan  and  Boly!  .  .  .  But  when  I  come 
to  think! — "  she  knitted  her  brows  sternly,  fiercely, 
" — how  was  it  you  managed  them?  .  .  .  Like  some 
trick  you  are  working  to-day.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  know  your 
fine  dream!  .  .  .  To  get  your  fine  boat  on  the  Lakes! 
But  what  if  we  fight  you  till  the  end  comes  where  there 
are  two  men  in  Jan's  and  Boly's  place!  .  .  .  Too 
strong  for  you!  .  .  .  with  .  .  .  maybe  with  boats  of 
their  own!  .  .  ." 

"You  run  on — and  run  on,"  said  Walewski  holding 
himself  upright  by  the  seat,  "but  before  I  get  through 
.  .  .  maybe  I  would  have  something  to  leave  your 
boys  .  .  .  Something  better  than  your  noise  about 
ships  and  money,  maybe  .  .  ." 

In  his  eye,  so  sunken  and  careless,  yet  red — she  felt 
something  scheming.  .  .  .  Suddenly  he  launched  for- 
ward and  wrapped  his  great  arms  around  her.  She 
was  crushed  against  that  tobaccoey-rank,  doe-skin 
vest  that  she  had  wondered  about  so  many  times — 
what  kind  of  iron  it  held  to  last  so  long.  With  face 
crushed  under  his  chin,  she  could  not  spring  free ;  could 
only  listen  to  the  rolling  of  his  heart  that  seemed  to 
thunder  the  terrible  vitality  of  the  man.  Yet  with  all 
the  panting  energy  in  her  she  could  tell  him  what  she 


50       STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

was  thinking!  It  had  come  to  her  like  a  blinding  flash 
that  all  Cardoul  had  hinted  was  true ! 

"I  see  now!" — her  dark  eyes  strained  back  in  their 
sockets  to  blaze  up  into  his — "about  Bolish!  .  .  .  Back 
there  you  killed  his  mind  .  .  .  telling  him  that  I 
wasn't  fit!  ...  I  tell  you  now  ...  I  would  grind 
you!  .  .  ." 

Loosing  one  arm  to  balance  himself,  he  threw  back 
a  crashing  kick.  The  worn  door-lock  sprang  open. 
She  dug  her  fingers  into  his  clothing.  .  .  .  With  a 
wrenching  sweep  of  his  left  arm  he  tore  her  fingers 
loose,  and,  clutching  the  door  combing,  shot  her  stag- 
gering into  the  seat.  .  .  .  Grasping  the  luggage  rail, 
he  swung  to  the  seat  beside  Stash  and  caught  the  reins 
away.  There  was  no  car-line  in  sight,  and  he  slashed 
out  at  the  horses  with  the  lines-end. 

Inside  Marynia  sat  staring  at  her  broken  finger-nails 
— or  biting  above  the  first  knuckles  to  stop  the  pain.  .  .  . 
They  were  rumbling  at  last  down  River  Street  past 
chandlery  shops  and  foundries  .  .  .  rumbling  now 
to  a  stop.  .  .  .  Marynia  leaned  out  into  the  dank  air  of 
a  black  little  street  with  a  scratch  of  blue  water  at  the 
end.  She  heard  Stash's  hoarse  treble  call  .  .  .  "Mac! 
.  .  .  Mist'  Fen!" 

Out  of  the  corner  shop  a  group  emerged — McCand- 
lish's  burly  figure,  Fentree,  and  the  flustered  but  trium- 
phant little  chandler.  .  .  .  Walewski's  gaunt  figure 
was  already  disappearing  up  the  steep  street. 

All  the  way  back  to  John  R.  Street  Marynia  held 
Stash's  shoulder  under  her  hurt  hand.  He  seemed  to 
understand  vaguely  that  he  had  been  brought  here  to 
stay;  and,  with  the  late  excitement  still  pounding  in 
his  heart,  did  not  feel  the  lonesomeness  of  it  ...  not 
until  he  saw  McCandlish  and  Mister  Fen  drive  off  with 


THE  DAWN  OF  SPLENDID  EMPRISE      51 

the  club  hack.  Then  clutching  Marynia's  wincing  hand 
he  called  hoarsely,  forlornly :  "Dere  she  goes !"  The 
rusty  black  back  of  it  grew  dim.  And  pointing  it  out 
for  her,  as  if  she  hadn't  any  eyes  of  her  own,  he  called 
with  a  falling  huskiness :  "Dere  she  goes!  .  .  " 


CHAPTER  IV 


Stash  might  have  bid  good-bye  in  the  same  terms  to 
Durand.  It  receded;  and  to  comfort  himself  he  made 
a  legend  of  those  Durand  days  and  the  Detroit  arrival. 
Misty,  heroic  figures  loomed  therein;  among  them 
Stash. 

A  letter  arrived  one  day  carrying  a  Durand  street 
number  and  H.  T.  Fen'tree,  Atty.  at  Law,  in  the  upper 
left  hand  corner.  After  the  exultant  pleasure  of  read- 
ing it — with  Marynia's  help,  of  course — Stash  spread 
out  his  paper  and  made  ready  to  answer. 

"Remember  dat  time — "  he  muttered  aloud. 

"But  stop  yourself,"  chided  Marynia,  "and  say 
that!" 

"That — that — that— that — that!"  sputtered  Stash, 
like  a  bumptious  colt  turned  into  a  that  treadmill  and 
making  the  slats  clatter. 

"Keep  some  of  those  w'ere  you  can  get  them  quick/' 
frowned  Marynia;  "how  big  and  rough  he  is! — and 
then  gets  licked  on  the  corner  because  he  didn'  let  Lee 
Luders  teach  him  the  only  best  way  to  fight  that  Mel 
Baxters." 

"How'd  you  know  dat? — that!" 

"Ho!  you  told  me  how  you  were  going  to  fight  that 


52       STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

Mel  like  Lee  taught  you — you  told  me  all  that  till  my 
head  hurt.  But  it  was  someone  else  told  me  how  you 
got  beat.  You  didn't  take  the  trouble  someway !"  She 
quirked  her  head  down  to  see  his  face,  and  chuckled. 

He  dropped  his  eyes  and  began  painstakingly :  "Dear 
Mister  Fen :     You  remember  that  time  . 


ii 

The  next  day  he  submitted  himself  to  Lee  Luders' 
instruction.  In  a  short  time  Luders  established  him- 
self as  a  sort  of  promoter  and  staged  several  exhibi- 
tions. These  affairs  took  place  on  the  cinder  patch  by 
the  school  furnace-room  door.  Big  Lee,  a  light  curly- 
haired  Jewish  boy  with  a  bland  rosy  face,  looked  smil- 
ingly on  as  Stash  tore  into  his  opponent,  and  guided 
Stash's  jerking  hot  fists  into  his  coat  sleeves  after  the 
affair  was  over. 

But  when  one  day  Stash  undertook  to  avenge  the 
vulgar  epithet  hurled  at  young  Luders,  the  Jewish 
boy  threw  his  arm  about  Stash's  shoulder  and  walked 
him  away :  "You  see  now  it's  this  way,  my  boy"  (he 
was  two  years  older)  :  "when  a  long  time  ago  I  make 
up  my  mind  not  pay  so  small  a  speck  of  attention  to 
that,  I  see  that  it's  wiser  because  would  you  have  me 
fight  the  whole  school — nor  you  could  neither,  see?" 
Luders  always  spoke  in  endless  sentences,  his  fair  curly 
head  always  tilting  back  in  good-humored  pride. 

With  a  dream  of  personal  prowess  to  serve,  the  days 
passed  swiftly.  One  morning  the  John  R.  Street 
maples  rang  with  robins'  songs ;  Stash  came  home  with 
his  coat  over  his  shoulder;  and  Rynia  prepared  not 
without  relief  to  say  good-bye  to  him  for  a  week.  He 
was  going  to  Durand  for  the  vacation. 


THE  DAWN  OF  SPLENDID  EMPRISE     53 

CHAPTER  V 


It  was  a  wo'nderful  thing  to  course  the  sand-duned 
rim  of  dark  Lake  Michigan  at  dawn,  and  to  catch  its 
first  sombre  sparkling  on  a  boy's  dancing  eyes; — and 
really  tremendous  to  roar  at  last  under  the  black  glass 
roof  of  old  Shabbona  Street  Station — where  three 
eager  faces  gazed  up  out  of  the  gas-lit  gloom :  Andre, 
Mist'  Fentree  and  big  Tom  Shieling,  the  old  lake 
master's  grandson. 

Stash  hurried  out  with  them  to  the  dusk  gray  street, 
where  Louise  was  waiting  in  Tom's  spring-wagon. 
Her  strange  soft  kiss  was  mingled  in  his  dazed,  en- 
chanted mind  with  the  smell  of  Easter  hyacinths  that 
Fentree  had  bought  at  the  dingy  flower  and  candy 
grotto. 

The  stoop-shouldered  lawyer  had  bought  a  big  box 
of  chocolates,  too,  for  his  contribution  to  the  vilet 
picnic  at  Varika's  place. 

It  was  a  magic  morning — traveling  through  dusk, 
still  streets.  Tom's  noble  grim-turned  head  seemed  to 
Stash  the  very  cut  of  manliness.  He  responded  exult- 
antly to  the  big  boy's  gruff  favor,  and  watched  the 
Park  house  slide  dreaming  by  with  not  a  thought  of 
little  Rose  Maddon — who  had  so  stirred  his  fancy  six 
months  ago. 

He  was  trembling  with  delight  when  Tom  came  in 
to  early  breakfast,  under  pale  nocturnal  gas  lamps. 
The  talk  ran  to  the  promised  vilet 1  at  Varika's  and 

1  Vilet  =  Picnic. 


54.       STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

Stash   begged   big    Tom   to   come.      "  'Cause — "    he 
explained,  "we  want  jus'  a  whole  crowd!" 

"Tom's  a  whole  crowd!"  said  Fentree  approvingly. 


II 

By  the  time  Varika  drove  in  with  his  high  black 
team  Stash  had  enrolled  quite  a  party,  including  Max 
Dunrin  and  the  Dalhousie  boys.  To  his  mind,  though, 
it  was  big  Tom  who  put  the  stamp  of  grandeur  on 
the  affair.  Tom  was  masterful ;  Tom  was  a  grown-up 
fellow  of  sixteen;  Tom  was  something  like — some- 
thing like  big  Mac !  There  was  a  strange  thrill  in  the 
fall  of  his  big  hand  on  vour  shoulder  and  his — "How's 
that,  Stash?" 

They  rattled  past  the  old  hotel  with  its  dreary  gal- 
leries and  stopped  at  Karshenko's  blacksmith  shop  on 
the  shore  road — where  Varsh  was  working. 

Stash  was  surprised  to  find  the  big  brother  not  so 
big  as  he  had  once  seemed — not  nearly  as  big  as  Tom 
Shieling.  He  was  large  enough,  however,  to  swing 
Stash  down  from  the  wagon  and  buffet  him  around, 
dancing  frenziedly  here  and  there.  His  coarse  voice 
was  just  splitting  its  way  into  bass  like  an  iron  wedge, 
wheedling  and  blaring  above  the  noise  of  dogs,  boys 
and  men. 

Something  in  the  Pole  boy's  mad  antics  made  Andre 
feel  like  laughing  and  crying  at  once.  She  saw  that 
Stash  was  embarrassed  and  resentful,  and  that  be- 
tween the  older  boy — so  crazy  with  delight — and  the 
changing  Stash  there  was  a  difference  that  had  widened 
since  Stash  had  lived  in  the  city.  Varsh's  manner 
blared  wide;  while  something  spindling  and  clever 
was  working  out  in  Stash. 


THE  DAWN  OF  SPLENDID  EMPRISE      55 

Perhaps  Varsh  felt  this  strangeness  in  Stash.  He 
clucked  his  tongue  a  little  foolishly  and  looked  about 
with  a  distraught  air;  then  darted  to  the  wagon-tail 
where  Tom  Shieling  sat  with  a  crippled  Llewellyn  set- 
ter across  his  knees.  Varsh  snatched  the  dog  into  his 
arms  and  staggered  off  dancing;  whistling  and  scuf- 
fling the  Stephenie  Mazurka  while  he  pumped  Wally's 
dismayed  tail  in  time  to  the  tune.  The  dog  whined 
piteously ;  but  Varsh's  battered  old  hat  was  on  the  back 
of  his  head,  and  he  was  inspired.  .  .  .  He  had  just 
tossed  the  dog  from  him,  in  the  midst  of  a  shout  of 
laughter,  when  Tom  Shieling  sprang  forward  and 
caught  the  Pole  boy's  ragged  coat  collar.  .  .  . 
"Abusin'  a  lame  dog!"  He  began  twisting  the  collar 
slowly  but  grimly.  .  .  . 

Gusts  of  clam-scented  wind  puffed  in  and  flapped 
Varsh's  old  hat  .  .  .  and  still  Stash  did  not  move  to 
help  him !  He  was  angry  at  clumsy  old  Varsh  for  get- 
ting into  trouble  with  Tom,  and  yet  dismayed  by  Tom's 
attack. 

Andre  cried  shrilly:  "Tom  Shieling! — I'm  mad  at 
you — mad — mad — mad !" 

"Come  quit  dis  foolishness!"  Varika  thrust  be- 
tween the  two  boys  and  drew  them  blusteringly  to- 
wards the  wagon. 

The  mysterious  grandeur  that  had  gathered  about 
the  dream  figure  of  Varsh  of  the  musical  ship  had 
vanished  for  Stash.  Yet  he  saw  Andre  looking  at 
Varsh  as  if  he  were  still  just  such  a  figure — some- 
thing sad,  something  wild  and  strange  about  him. 

in 

The  creek  alders  made  waxy  yellow  pencilings  on 
the  dusky  blue  above  the  hostinets — that  general  store, 


56       STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

cream  depot  and  refreshment  saloon  of  Vartek  Var- 
ika's.  On  the  big  lavitza,  a  huge  carved  bench,  were 
Marika  and  little  Anetka  in  their  fresh  white  aprons. 
The  lavitza  was  gorgeous  with  fresh  blue  paint  and 
vermilion  curved  edgings,  a  noble  advertisement  of  the 
hostinets. 

Out  on  the  breezy  back  pavilion  deck  the  party 
watched  Varika  hanging  packages  of  nuts,  pineapples 
and  grapes  on  the  branches  of  a  tall  brook  alder — the 
vilet  tree. 

A  sudden  shout  of  delight  arose.  The  little  Bohe- 
mian was  tying  to  the  highest  branches  big  glossy  clus- 
ters of  Tokaiski  grapes.  His  voice  wavered  down: 
"Dese  are  for  dose  bigger  fellows." 

"That's  w'at  I  said,"  Jennika  nodded,  with  a  daring 
flash  of  her  black  eyes  into  Tom's,  " — let  only  the  big 
boys  go  up  so  high.  If  they  want  to !" 

"Well,  I  think  I  want  to,"  Tom  grinned;  and  knew 
in  a  flash  that  he  had  fairly  said — "I  want  to  get  them 
for  you !" 

Jennika  flushed ;  and  it  was  like  looking  into  one  of 
those  shells  of  Grandad  Shieling's  that  held  a  pink  as 
mysterious  as  its  endless  roaring.  Just  such  a  roar  ran 
through  Tom's  head. 

Solemn  Alois  of  the  blue  beard  stains  came  out  in 
his  waiter's  apron  to  serve  them  syrups.  He  glanced 
with  melancholy  appreciation  at  the  pink  candelabras 
of  Tokaiski  grapes  floating  in  the  peak  of  the  alder. 

Varsh,  who  had  been  taking  a  practise  climb  at  the 
vilet  tree,  swung  over  and  flung  down  on  the  pavilion 
deck. 

"Now  see  the  trouble  you've  made !"  said  Andre  with 
friendly  impishness;  "Tom  had  to  jump  when  you 
sprung  over,  and  spilt  his  syrup  on  Jennika's  dress." 


THE  DAWN  OF  SPLENDID  EMPRISE      57 

"It  don'  matter!"  flashed  Jennika  angrily.  Tom 
was  trying  to  wipe  it  off  with  his  paper  napkin.  .  .  . 

"Never  mind  a  bit  more !"  Jennika  threw  an  angry 
look  at  Varsh,  and  impulsively  to  Tom  said:  "Here 
— your  syrup's  gone — take  mine!" 

"No! "  Tom  was  fighting  darkly  for  his  dig- 
nity. 

But  Jennika  had  her  own  confusion  to  manage,  and 
flashed  out  with  the  dare:  "You  can  put  your  straw 
in  mine!" 

A  gleam  from  Tom's  eye  promised:  "I'll  put  it 
through  if  you  will!" 

Jennika  pursed  her  bitter-sweet  lips  redly  after  a 
humming  bird's  sip. 

Tom  sipped  and  said:  "That's  good  enough  for 
me !"  His  challenging  eye  caught  Varsh's — who  shook 
his  head  with  a  derisive  snort.  The  boys  at  Stash's 
table  were  passing  ribald  comment — "Don't  blow  in  it, 
Tom — don't " 

He  sprang  across  and  threatened  them  with  a  syrup 
shampoo.  .  .  .  And  when  he  turned  back,  there  sat 
Varsh  in  Tom's  chair — with  a  playful  doggish  spread 
of  the  elbows — sipping  from  Jennika's  glass.  Every 
one  shouted.  Even  Jennika  delighted  in  his  comical 
way;  tears  stood  in  her  dark  eyes.  She  felt  as  if  she 
were  playing  with  fire,  and  puckered  her  moody  red 
lips  with  mocking  delight  at  Tom. 

He  had  been  playing  the  clumsy  bear,  he  felt,  and 
resolved  darkly  to  continue.  He  grinned  at  Varsh, 
and  snatching  the  glass — poured  it  over  his  head. 

Angry  tears  sprang  to  Varsh's  eyes,  and  he  struck 
out  wildly.  Tom's  arm  shot  back,  grazing  Varsh's  ear 
and  turning  it  fiery  red.  With  a  hand  over  that  ear 
Varsh  turned  away,  hiding  his  face  from  which  the 


58       STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

syrup  dripped.  Impulsively  Jennika  sprang  over  to 
him,  and  putting  her  arm  round  his  shoulder,  pressed 
her  handkerchief  into  his  hand.  It  was  the  tenderest 
best  that  she  could  do  for  him 

IV 

At  the  climbing  of  the  vilet  tree.  Varsh — all  fresh 
and  scoured  from  the  creek — seemed  the  most  exuber- 
ant of  the  eager  boys. 

Varika  had  umpired  these  affairs  in  stary  Bohemia, 
and  was  reveling  in  his  petty  dictatorship.  Sandy  Bob 
Dalhousie  had  embarrassed  himself  with  a  large  pine- 
apple which  he  was  anxious  to  deposit  in  a  crotch. 

"No,  you  gotto  take  it  along  wid  you.  An'  don'  try 
to  hide  it  in  your  ear !  You're  pretty  sly,  Doctor ;  but 
we  got  sharpened  up  too — we  also  drunk  some  grind- 
stone milk  when  we  was  babies !"  Even  solemn  Alois 
applauded  this  sally. 

Marika  and  Louise  were  hugging  each  other  with 
the  absurd  ecstasy  of  girls  at  a  party,  and  laughing  at 
Bob,  who  clutched  his  pineapple  like  a  thing  that  had 
betrayed  him. 

Suddenly  Varika  gave  a  roar  of  dismay.  Those  on 
the  pavilion  deck  strained  out  to  see  Varsh  and  Tom 
struggling  in  the  top  of  the  tree.  Varsh  was  trying 
to  gnaw  through  the  twig  that  held  the  rosy  balloon 
of  grapes,  while  he  tried  to  beat  off  Tom. 

"By  God,  what  a  monkey  work!"  Varika  groaned. 
.  .  .  All  at  once  there  rose  a  whimper  of  horror  from 
the  pavilion.  The  twig  had  come  loose;  but  Varsh 
swung  out  like  a  figure  of  crucifixion  with  the  red 
cluster  against  his  breast.  .  .  .  The  branches  he  hung 
from  were  crackling.  .  .  .  Tom  reached  out  and 
swung  his  foot  to  a  toe-hold. 


Then  began  a  fiercer  struggle.  Again  and  again 
young  Shieling  held  Varsh  in  half  a  clinch;  but  the 
Pole  boy  wrenched  away  at  last  and  launched  himself 
on  swaying  branches  that  lowered  him,  lurching  and 
clutching,  to  the  ground.  .  .  .  With  his  bruised  and 
dripping  prize  he  ran  to  Jennika. 

Now  Tom  was  on  the  ground  and  springing  for 
him.  But  there  was  no  fear  in  Varsh  when  he  turned 
to  meet  him.  .  .  .  To  that  fiery  little  queen — that 
pretty  one — he  had  given  the  prize!  His  mouth  was 
bleeding  where  he  had  held  the  stem  clenched  in  his 
teeth.  .  .  . 

Stash  felt  that  he  must  help  now  one — now  the 
other!  But  in  his  hot  heart  he  was  all  exultant  for 
Varsh!  When  he  thought  Tom's  crazy  face  was  han- 
kering right  into  Varsh's  heart — with  a  snap  there! — 
Varsh  was  free!  But  he  was  too  daring,  this  Varsh, 
and  paused  too  long  to  taunt. 

Stash  couldn't  tell  how  it  happened — but  suddenly 
he  felt  his  throat  croaking  feebly  for  help !  help !  Torn 
had  Varsh's  head  clenched  under  his  arm  and  was  beat- 
ing mechanically.  Varsh's  eyes!  .  .  .  Stash  could  not 
bear  it!  He  flung  himself  on  Tom's  back,  embarras- 
sing Varika  in  his  struggle  to  separate  the  two.  The 
Pole  boy  lurched  to  the  ground,  but  picked  himself  up 
and  started  away. 

Tom  too  got  his  cap  and  started  off.  The  other 
boys  ran  out  in  front  of  the  hostinets  like  frightened 
rabbits  and  watched  them  down  the  road. 

Varsh  was  ahead,  walking  crookedly.  Now  and 
then  he  would  stumble  a  bit  and  stop.  Stash's  heart 
seemed  wrenching  out  of  him,  pulling  him  towards 
Varsh.  But  something  locked  his  feet. 

They  wandered  back  to  gather  up  their  vilet  prizes. 


60       STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

Later  Mrs.  Varika  served  them  hot  drinks  with  kned- 
licek  and  a  delicious  party  supper.  The  oozing  bunch 
of  Tokaiski  grapes  had  been  left  where  Jennika  threw 
them  in  sick  fury. 


As  the  lights  came  on,  the  blight  seemed  to  have  lift- 
ed from  the  party,  and  they  played  games  through  the 
spicy  penetralia  of  the  hostinets. 

Once  as  Stash  was  hiding  in  the  mirky  lobby  he 
found  Marika  huddled  in  the  same  dark  corner.  Sud- 
denly both  her  hands  grasped  his  shoulder  and  her 
voice  broke  and  sang :  "Stash,  why  didn't  you  go  after 
him?  ...  Stash!  .  .  .  He— he " 

Stash  felt  a  sudden  sob  convulsing  his  throat,  and 
struck  her  hands  down:  "I  don'  wanto  play  this  ol' 
game  any  more!"  he  mumbled,  turning  with  a  sudden 
mournful  passion  of  anger  and  hot  tears  to  bury  his 
head  in  the  clothes-hung  corner. 

Marika  clutched  his  hand  and  pressed  it  hard  against 
her  cheek  to  beg  his  forgiveness. 

In  the  balmy  Spring  dark  the  party  said  good-bye, 
their  excited  cries  diffusing  suddenly  into  the  great  soft 
night,  where  the  bulky  shape  of  the  lavitza  showed 
curved  in  the  starlight. 

In  his  dreams  Stash  lived  over  the  whole  day.  And 
somehow  in  the  confusion  his  Varsh  of  the  great  mu- 
sical ship  came  and  towered  over  the  smaller  Varsh 
and  helped  him  away.  And  when  Stash  ran  after  .  .  . 
crying  .  .  .  the  two  became  confused  beyond  all  tell- 
ing. 


BOOK  THREE:  THE  SHADOW  OF 
CASTLE  DURAND 

CHAPTER  I 


Stash  had  returned  to  Detroit.  And  the  plain  fact 
that  the  busy  city  had  been  right  here  all  the  time  he 
was  absent  gave  him  a  feeling  of  years  trooped  by  and 
the  need  to  demonstrate  his  own  added  mettle.  He 
consulted  "old  Lee"  about  jobs. 

After  listening  blandly  to  Stash's  story  of  great  va- 
cation doings,  young  Luders  dug  out  some  newspaper 
clippings  and  began  at  once : 

"You  see  on  every  one  of  these  which  is  want  ads 
is  a  line  to  say  'boy  with  wheel  wanted' — for  which  I 
couldn't  get  you  any  position  without  it,  but  a  Satur- 
day job  I  got  for  you  if  you  would  get  a  bike." 

Stash  tried  not  to  look  too  delighted,  and  succeeded 
only  in  looking  wildly  exhilarated. 

"A  bike  is  indispensable  to  you  at  our  place,  which 
is  carrying  music  deliveries  from  Skretuski's,  like 
resin,  rolls,  piano  covers,  Scarlattis,  Czernys  and  many 
others,  see." 

"How  I  going  to  get  a  bike?" 

"I  have  that  too  arranged,  that  all  you  need  is  five 
dollars,  and  in  good  condition  at  that."  Young  Luders 

61 


62        STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

contemplated  Stash  with  serene  sapphire  blue  eyes.  He 
seemed  to  hold  Stash's  fortunes  in  the  hollow  of  his 
hand. 

The  clipping  was  shown  to  his  mother  that  noon,  and 
the  great  desirability  of  boys  with  bikes  over  boys 
without  was  set  forth. — Not  only  to  employers  but  to 
themselves!  By  the  next  Saturday  he  had  learned  to 
ride,  and  was  carrying  parcels  in  a  news  sack  on  his 
back. 

Lee  dabbled  at  all  sorts  of  instruments;  and  Stash 
resolved  to  let  no  musical  grass  grow  under  his  feet. 
He  counted  as  lost  every  minute  that  he  was  not  play- 
ing the  piccolo  under  Lee's  tutelage,  or  learning  to 
tongue  the  bugle  under  Val  Prinzep  in  Prinzep's  Bath- 
house, or  trying  out  a  violin,  naked  of  varnish  as  a  new 
baby,  at  old  Kreuger's  shop  on  Library  Street. 

Kreuger  told  them  wonderful  stories  of  the  Tyro- 
lean Alps  and  Jacob  Stainer,  the  artist  craftsman.  He 
taught  them  the  Tyrolese  game  of  Fingershangl'n;  at 
which  Stash  out-pulled  Luders,  who  was  always  serene 
in  defeat  as  in  victory. 

Two  things  roused  Kreuger's  wrath :  to  have  Stash 
try  to  yodel  in  the  little  shop,  and  to  hear  Luders  call 
de  forest  horn  a  French  horn. 

"A  forest  horn!"  he  would  shout,  "how  can  it  be 
otherwise  compared!" 

Or — "Stop  dot  noise,  you  devil  dot  could  never  in 
a  century  learn  to  yodel !  Give  instead  one  of  your  old 
Polaker  folk  songs,  like  dot  Jas  and  Marynia!" 

And  Stash  would  obligingly  sing  from  Jas's 
part,  pulling  out  of  his  steep  chest  the  rushing  hoarse- 
ness of  the  great  voice  that  would  be  his  in  time. 

Cardoul  refused  to  help  Stash  with  the  violin.  But 
the  old  Professor,  Jack's  father,  was  quick  to  offer 


THE  SHADOW  OF  CASTLE  DURAND      63 

himself.  The  old  brown-eyed  veteran  had  followed 
Jack  to  Detroit  and  glided  into  their  life  in  John  R. 
Street  like  a  mournful  adroit  old  beaver. 

The  old  man  treated  himself  to  buying  Stash's  vio- 
lin. ...  At  Kreuger's  of  course.  ...  It  was  Spring 
again,  and  that  was  a  happy  afternoon  in  the  old  shop. 
It  got  dark  while  they  were  trying  out  the  lovely  slim 
white  beauties  that  hung  on  a  catgut  across  the  win- 
dow. And  the  lights  had  cropped  out  like  pale  bluish 
daffodils  in  Library  Street;  while — wandering  home 
through  the  humming  city  evening — they  felt  Spring 
stirring  in  the  dusk.  .  .  .  Kreuger  had  promised  to 
finish  the  violin  "extra  beautiful — as  if  it  was  a 
Stainer  even!"  Magic  pattern  of  a  Spring  evening! 

Stash  was  more  insatiable  than  ever  for  patterns; 
patterns  of  bizarre  splendor  and  magnificence,  patterns 
of  melancholy  and  youth's  luxurious  tragedy,  patterns 
of  grotesque  humor. 

It  made  a  humorous  pattern  when  old  Kreuger 
talked  to  him  and  Lee  one  winter  evening  about  the 
beautiful  music  phrase  that  was  so  an  ecstasy  to  get. 
It  had  been  a  long  time  since  he  and  Lee  had  lounged 
in  the  cozy  shop ;  but  these  cold  winter  evenings  called 
them  back  to  the  balsamy,  blanched  dust,  pungent  var- 
nish smells  and  dry  heat,  and  to  old  Kreuger's  musing 
talk. 

"But  the  music  phrase,  mark  you,  when  you  get  it  in 
mind,  den  does  de  magic  ewaporate — just  leedle  by 
leedle.  So  it  is  wid  women !  Mark  you ! — my  remedy 
for  dem  both  is  not  to  capture  dem ! — or  if  captured,  to 
hear  dem  seldom !" 

Silence  for  a  moment,  with  Lee  smiling  serenely 
from  his  perch,  then  Stash's  hoarse  guffaw.  He  was 
fourteen  now  and  his  voice  was  changing.  He  felt  im- 


64s       STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

mensely  grown  up,  and  it  tickled  his  childish  vanity  and 
humor  to  have  Kreuger  advise  them  slyly  about  women. 

Old  Kreuger's  fine  strung  nerves  resented  his  hoarse 
laugh.  But  what  did  he  care !  What  did  he  care  about 
Kreuger  and  his  women,  or  about  anything  in  fact  ? 

Above  all,  he  longed  to  use  this  new  unheard-of 
energy  that  seemed  raging  in  him,  seemed  to  promise 
him  some  adventure  of  untold  glory  and  passionate 
harmony — if  he  could  only,  only  find  it. 

He  cared  nothing  about  his  old  friends,  except  the 
imperturbable  Luders.  Worst  of  all,  he  didn't  care 
about  Rynia.  He  despised  her  for  having  let  Cardoul 
hang  around  so  long  before  she  married  him,  and  de- 
spised her  for  having  married  him. 


ii 

And  then  a  sudden  change.  It  came  about  through 
McCandlish's  scheme  for  the  Elizabeth  Street  theatre 
which  had  ripened  at  last.  Cardoul  saw  in  this  his 
great  opportunity.  Even  Stash,  now  a  sagacious  seven- 
teen, noted  how  he  flung  off  his  shabby  indifference 
and  plunged  into  the  scheme  of  the  Tunnel  Theatre. 

It  was  a  great  winter  for  them  all.  Big  Mac's  bas- 
sooning  taroo-bahoo  was  heard  in  the  house,  like  a 
wheezy  woodwind ;  while  e\  :ry  evening  they  sat  be- 
fore the  chipped  green  grate  and  talked  the  business 
of  stock  company  and  a  season  of  musical  comedies. 

Just  as  the  new  company  began  to  draw,  several 
things  happened,  among  them  Cardoul's  breakdown. 
Over-work  and  drink.  And  it  was  now  that  the  change 
came  over  Stash.  The  grandiose  lured  him  less.  A 
craving  for  winsome,  tender  patterns  returned.  Ro- 
mance dawned  for  him. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  CASTLE  DURAND      65 

He  loved  to  get  in  the  gallery  while  it  was  yet  dark 
throughout  the  house,  and  alone — or  with  Lee  beside 
him — to  whistle  the  wistful  tunes  of  last  week's  bill. 
Then  would  he  send  his  whistle  pianissimo  to  feel  out 
with  thin  tenderness  the  dusk  eerie  corners  of  the 
house  where  plaintive  echoes  hung.  Just  as  the  dusty 
spar  of  the  spot-light  a  littie  later  brushed  softly  about 
the  great  cavern.  ...  It  seemed  then  that  new  cor- 
ners of  his  soul  opened  up;  and  he  was  hungry  for 
.  .  .  what? 

Sometimes,  walking  home,  he  asked  himself  brusque- 
ly why  he  trembled  for  this  unknown  something  that 
made  up  the  sweetness  of  the  night — and  the  stars — 
and  the  taunting  pretty  faces  beneath  the  flaring  bor- 
ders. 

in 

And  now  fell  the  blow  of  Cardoul's  illness  and  the 
tragic  struggle  following.  For  the  Tunnel  project  had 
failed;  Cardoul  had  returned  to  the  Frontenac;  and  in 
order  to  fight  the  depression  that  dogged  him  he  sur- 
rendered to  his  old  enemy.  He  drank  before  the  show 
to  key  up;  and  after,  to  compose  his  twitching  nerves. 

Night  after  night  Cardoul  would  get  up  and  start 
out;  and  Stash  learned  to, .sleep  in  his  clothes  so  that  he 
could  bound  up  and  follow  after.  At  first  stealthily, 
but  later  as  a  recognized  move  in  the  elaborate  fight 
Cardoul  was  conducting.  The  further  he  lost,  the 
more  finessing  he  must  do. 

This  he  explained  in  elaborate  dictums,  on  their  night 
walks  through  the  sleeping  city.  And  so  was  woven 
into  Stash's  mind  a  new  set  of  patterns ;  arabesques  of 
the  midnight  town :  a  dusk  land  of  crossroads  avenues, 
Dequindre,  Joseph  Campau,  St.  Aubin,  like  rumors  of 


66       STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

cavalier  New  France,  ending  always  in  a  river  which 
seemed  to  encircle  a  fabled  island  of  night. 

Sometimes  Cardoul  was  reminiscent,  and  told  of 
his  boy  playtime  in  Quebec,  Gibraltar,  Paris.  The 
sequel  to  this  was  apt  to  be  a  profound  study  of  a  low 
lighted  door,  before  which  he  would  stand  in  a  trance 
of  stern  reproach,  until — overcome  by  astonishment 
and  alarm  at  rinding  himself  still  outside — he  would 
bolt  suddenly  through. 

The  fact  that  Cardoul  was  so  decent  made  his  reli- 
ance on  Stash  the  more  pitiful.  Most  astonishing  of  all, 
at  times  his  system  for  finessing  the  demon  seemed  to 
be  winning;  and  they  had  happy  picnics  in  the  Vene- 
tian lagoon-land  above  St.  Clair; — when  Marynia  al- 
lowed Cardy  just  a  little,  and  they  came  home  gaily 
in  the  fiery  serene  hour  of  the  evening  on  a  river  all 
sun-spangled  and  glorious.  Rynia  at  such  times  sang 
for  them,  to  Stash's  playing,  and  showed  such  piercing 
happiness  and  hope  that  Stash,  after  going  to  bed, 
would  fumble  at  his  chest  as  if  he  would  grasp  his 
heart  angrily  and  squeeze  it  dry  of  ache.  He  learned 
to  be  compassionate  of  Cardoul. 

When  one  day,  after  such  an  ecstatic  evening,  Rynia 
told  Stash  that  he  was  going  to  Durand  for  a  few 
months  with  Fentree,  Cardoul  rose  with  a  half  whim- 
per of  alarm.  He  had  come  to  rely  on  Stash.  Stash 
was  grieved,  too,  for  he  had  been  proud  to  help  Car- 
doul; had  grown  so  much  straighter  and  taller  in  his 
heart  that  it  had  reacted  on  his  loose  growing  frame 
and  made  him  walk  in  that  way  so  glorious  to  his 
mother.  But  she  had  planned  it  so ;  had  written  Fen- 
tree.  Somehow  she  knew  that  Cardoul  was  losing, 
that  they  were  going  down  together;  and  she  was  de- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  CASTLE  DURAND      67 

termined  that  Stash  should  always  carry  that  towering 
unabashed  head. 

The  morning  he  left,  Lee  Luders  came  around  to 
accompany  him  to  the  station.  Cardoul  had  gone  out 
to  get  his  shoes  blacked  and  order  the  transfer.  Stash 
got  Luders  into  the  hall  to  help  him  strap  his  trunk. 

Straining  at  the  leather,  with  a  prodigious  scowl  on 
his  hacked  out  features,  Stash  suddenly  flashed  an 
aside  to  his  pal :  "Keep  an  eye  on  Cardy,  will  you?" 

"Yes,  I  will,  though  I  can't  promise  very  much, 
depend  on  me,  boy."  He  slapped  Stash's  shoulder,  his 
only  demonstration  of  affection.  His  prominent  eyes 
gleamed  a  startling  blue  in  the  hall  dusk. 

"Well,"  said  Stash,  "that's  done!"— and  he  rushed 
in  suddenly  to  see  Rynia.  She  was  dressed  in  her  pret- 
tiest black  dress,  a  rose  pinned  at  her  waist.  Stash 
smiled  and  shrugged — as  though  he  had  forgotten 
what  he  darted  in  for.  He  ran  a  big  hand  through  his 
up-flaring  hair.  In  a  flash  she  grasped  the  hand  in 
hers ;  and  baffled  no  longer,  Stash  put  both  arms  round 
her  shoulders  and  pressed  his  chin  on  her  head.  He 
had  a  strange  flash  of  fear  that  he  was  not  to  see  her 
again,  and  knowing  that  he  mustn't  let  the  lump  in  his 
throat  choke  him,  he  chuckled :  "Little  Rynia — only  to 
my  shoulder!" 

On  the  street  car  he  and  Lee  talked  over  certain 
schemes  that  his  trip  would  interrupt.  He  noted  that 
his  mother's  hat  of  rose  and  blue  drew  some  attention, 
and  knew  that  she  had  tried  to  make  herself  just  her 
prettiest  in  his  honor. 

A  springy  tingling  feeling  kept  him  moving  about 
on  the  station  concourse  in  the  early  morning  dusk. 
He  wanted  to  kiss  Rynia,  but  hadn't  for  several  years ; 
so  he  held  his  violin  case  awkwardly  between  them  as 


68        STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

an  excuse  for  not  doing  it ;  patted  her  shoulder  roughly 
and  swung  himself  aboard  by  the  shining  hand-rail. 
Later,  through  the  window,  he  looked  down  on  the 
three  faces  .  .  .  Rynia's  very  white  in  the  station  haze 
.  .  .  and  now  slid  out  into  the  early  fresh  sunshine, 
where  spars  and  funnels  marked  the  course  of  the  blue 
straits. 

CHAPTER  II 


Stash  was  looking  eagerly  through  the  car  window 
for  the  first  glimpse  of  town.  He  had  watched  the 
Lake  Michigan  dunes  raise  shadowy  white  walls,  like 
mountains  on  the  moon,  and  wheel  away  to  'the  north. 
And  now  a  breeze  from  shimmering  rush  beds  riffled 
his  hair.  .  .  .  The  marsh  country !  .  .  .  With  a  queer 
feeling  tightening  his  throat,  he  saw  the  dark  green 
marsh  flats  flying  purple  under  vast  cloud  shadows,  and 
far  off  a  salmon-colored  funnel  of  a  Ruffross  freighter 
drudging  along  its  hidden  channel. 

Straggling  meadows,  swales  and  grade  crossings 
.  .  .  factories  flanked  with  steep  noon  shadows.  .  .  . 
Durand !  .  .  .  The  train  clanged  through  rattling  brick 
slots,  where  its  swirling  hallway  of  long  steel  coaches 
raised  gloomy  echoes.  .  .  .  Bang!  .  .  .  Clang!  over 
frogs  and  crossovers.  .  .  .  Stash  caught  up  his  cap  and 
case,  and  stood  swaying  in  the  vestibule.  .  .  .  He  felt 
the  power  in  him  to  cope  with  some  great  enterprise 
.  .  .  and  that  it  might  lie  just  ahead. 

Now  in  the  smirching  gloom  of  old  Shabbona  Sta- 
tion he  saw  a  face  like  Fentree's.  .  .  .  No ! — there  he 
was!  Springing  down  while  the  train  was  gliding  in. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  CASTLE  DURAND      69 

he  rushed  forward  and  caught  the  lawyer's  thin  wrist  in 
his  big  hand. 

Fentree  laughed  off  his  bewilderment  at  finding 
Stash  so  grown.  "I'll  have  to  straighten  up,"  he  said, 
"or  you'll  head  me  off." 

Stash  flushed  with  the  warmth  of  old  memories : 
"Do  the  girls  still  keep  at  you?" 

"About  my  slump  shoulders?  Oh,  yes.  They're 
nearly  as  tall  as  you,  Stash.  I  s'pose" — he  cunningly 
guessed  too  low — "you  weigh  hundred  thirty-five?" 

"Nearer  hundred  forty-five,"  Stash  replied,  swing- 
ing his  weight  along  as  though  he  carried  a  steel  spring 
in  each  boot.  Several  turned  to  look  at  the  reckless 
featured  big  boy  with  the  sun-scorched  hair. 

They  swung  out  into  the  noon  glare. 

"I  never  heard  that  before!"  Stash  stopped  and 
threw  on  his  cap. 

"That's  a  lake  freighter's  bark — a  Petrie  or  Ruffross 
fantail.  They  come  down  here  now  with  ore  since  the 
channel's  been  dredged.  We've  got  a  dozen  new  fur- 
nace stoves  at  the  Marantle  works  and  six  at  Imbrie's. 
Everything  changing." 

Another  bass  harr  replied  with  the  song  that  sounds 
of  blue  water  always  and  everywhere. 

"Hello !"  said  Fentree.  "Looks  like  Maddon  ahead. 
.  .  .  You  won't  mind  hanging  round  a  minute?  I 
want  to  speak  to  him.  See  the  big  stack  for  the  Valley 
Electric?  That's  the  new  engine  house." 

Exhilarated  by  this  building  rush — now  stilled  into 
noon — Stash  swung  aside-  down  the  wooden  gangway 
to  the  engine  house.  The  huge  black  stack  reclined 
like  a  tired  monster  with  maw  uplifted.  Stash  was 
wheeling  under  it  when  a  colored  flicker  caught  his 
eye,  and  in  the  black  mouth  of  the  stack  three  feet 


70       STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY, 

above  his  head  he  saw  a  picture  that  brought  the  old 
Frontenac  stage  to  him.  For  it  looked  as  though  a 
fantastic  spotlight  had  cast  a  black  "flood"  around  a 
gallant  girl  figure.  She  centered,  with  a  flash  of  blue 
and  scarlet,  in  the  black  circle;  stooping  a  little,  as 
though  making  a  whimsical  inviting  gesture  to  Stash. 

Off  came  his  cap — for  a  chin  rest — :  in  a  flash  he 
whipped  out  his  violin  and  whirled  his  bow  over  in  a 
riffle  of  minor  yearning.  Then  struck  them  both  be- 
hind him  with  a  toss  of  gruff  laughter. 

"Doin'  the  soubrette  grand !"  he  chuckled.  "They've 
got  the  black  spot  on  you!" 

She  stooped  to  sketch  a  little  bow,  showing  tawny 
gold  hair  under  a  hat  of  green  and  blue  tulle.  "I  have 
to  bow  all  the  time,"  she  complained;  "they  said  a  man 
could  stand  up  in  it!" 

"They  didn'  say  it  about  so  little  a  one  as  you," 
Stash  tossed  another  abrupt  little  laugh,  "tryin'  to  play 
you  ain'  the  littlest  Rose  ever!  .  .  .  Didn'  know  I 
knew  your  name !" 

The  pointed  chin  turned  up  in  mock  sternness:  "I 
don't  know  as  I  know  you!" 

"Don'  you  give  the  hook  to  the  leader  man,  or  there 
can'  be  any  show.  My  name's  Stashlaf  Plazarski." 

"Oh-h! — heavenly  name!  You  know! — you're  the 
prettiest  Polak  boy  I  ever  saw!" 

Stash  screwed  up  his  face  disgustedly,  and  flung  off 
a  mocking  screech  with  his  bow.  "See,  I  make  her 
talk  back  at  you.  I  can  make  her  talk  patter  talk." 
With  a  staccato  jibber  and  titter  the  bow  staggered  in 
its  scurry  but  never  tripped. 

"Now  you  know  what  she  thinks  of  you,"  Stash  end- 
ed with  a  laugh,  "and  I'm  goin/  "  and  wheeled  to 
run. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  CASTLE  DURAND     71 

"And  never  let  me  answer  back?"  called  Rose  Mad- 
don. 

"She  is  such  a  rascal  lady  that  she  even  talks  fresh 
to  me!"  Stash  flourished  the  vixenish  violin  as  he  ran, 
"So  I  say,  don'  feel  bad  about  that." 

"As  if  I  did!"  trilled  Rose  Maddon,  a  little  angrily. 
"Come  back,  you!  you've  left  your  riddle  box!" 

The  noon  watchman,  who  had  wandered  around, 
picked  up  the  case  and  handed  it  out.  "I  saw  it  laying 
there  like  a  little  coffin,"  he  said,  "an'  I  couldn't  think 
what  it  was." 

Stash  grinned  sheepishly. 

"Don't  feel  bad  over  that!"  the  girl  stage-whis- 
pered teasingly,  as  if  to  triumph  over  his  chagrin. 

"As  if  I  did!"  he  repeated  her  mocking  words,  and 
raced  back  to  Fentree  who  stood  waiting — and  smil- 
ing. 

"I  guess  I  got  fresh,"  said  Stash,  a  little  foolishly. 

Fentree  put  a  hand  on  his  shoulder  in  a  way  that 
said :  "Nothing  of  the  sort." 

"I  was  going  to  walk  up  inside  that  pipe  to  see  how 
big  it  was.  I  looked  up !  There  she  was  down-stage ! 
So  I  scraped  a  string,  and  she  took  a  bend."  He 
laughed  abruptly  at  the  memory  and  recovered  spirits 
at  a  bound. 

"I  hope  it  was  more  satisfactory  than  my  talk  with 
her  dad — he's  a  no-compromiser,  sure" ;  and  after  a 
pause,  "he's  bought  Colonel  Walewski's  old  castle, 
where  you  kids  used  to  play,  and  fixed  it  up  lately — 
you'll  see — here's  a  car  that  goes  as  far  as  our  place." 

They  boarded  it;  and  Stash  stared  with  exultant  ad- 
miration at  Maddon's  grandiose  reclamation  of  the  old 
"castle."  He  made  resolve  that  he  would,  he  would 
get  into  that  big  pink  pile  somehow!  Every  foot  of 


72        STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

the  old  grounds  had  a  joyous  memory  for  him :  its 
walnuts,  its  buckeyes,  its  rhododendrons  and  service 
berries,  its  sandstone  frustum  which  had  made  such 
"elegant"  ruins  to  play  in.  ...  They  ran  clanging 
down  Wacaser  hill,  and  Stash  saw  the  old  lavender 
Fentree  house  moored  like  a  satisfied  old  canal  boat 
under  its  bank  of  top-lofty  maples. 


ii 

Lunch  was  getting  cold  when  they  arrived,  and  Fen- 
tree  and  Stash  were  accused  of  loitering. 

"Well,  I  did  talk  to  Maddon  ...  but  you  ought  to 
have  seen  Stash!  He's  aching  to  have  me  tell." 

"Don't  want  to  know! — I  seem  to  guess  already," 
Andre  smiled  with  sparkling  gray  eyes,  "you  saw 
Rose  Maddon!  Well,  tell  us,  was  she  pulling  her 
father  around  to  buy  things  for  the  big  party  to-night  ? 
.  .  .  like  we're  going  to  do  with  Dad.  Only  ours 
won't  be  Re-splendent!  Did  you  see  he's  spoiled  the 
old  castle  ruins?  It's  to  warm  that — their  party  is,  I 
mean." 

"And  what's  ours  for?"  Stash  burst  out  in  sheer 
pleasure. 

"To  warm  you!  Unless  Rose  Maddon  got  in  her 
bid,  and  you're  going  to  the  Castle  to-night." 

Stash  laughed  exultantly :  "Wouldn'  it  be  fun  to  go 
along  that  ol'  ledge  by  the  windows,  and  go  right  in 
like  we  used  to!  Like  a  ghost." 

"Like  you  used  to!"  Louise  smiled.  "No  one  else 
tried  such  a  foolish  thing." 

"That  must  have  been  three  years  ago,"  said  Mrs. 
Fentree,  who  kept  time  relations  straightened  for  a 


THE  SHADOW  OF  CASTLE  DURAND      73 

careless  family,  "when  you  were  fifteen.    You  haven't 
told  us  what  you've  been  doing  all  this  time." 

"That's  right,"  said  Fentree,  "about  McCandlish 
and  his  theatre  scheme — and  Andrew  .  .  ." 

The  very  thought  of  these  persons  made  Stash  break 
into  laughter.  Luncheon  was  really  over;  and,  once 
started,  he  rushed  on  with  stories  of  Kreuger  and  his 
nervous  spasms  over  Stash's  singing,  his  advice  on 
women  and  song,  of  McCandlish  and  the  jokes  of  the 
Tunnel  theatre  company  over  his  queer  ways.  He 
imitated  his  coughing  "taroo-bahoo"  and  grumpy  swag- 
ger till  Fentree  shook.  Then  stopped  abruptly  and 
stared  at  Fentree  as  if  to  ask  if  he  had  got  too  "fresh" 
again.  Reassured,  he  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair 
as  if  to  grip  and  hold  himself  quiet  there.  He  looked 
around  smiling,  with  bronze  hair  flaring  back  and  dark 
eyes  glowing  with  the  joy  of  being  here. 

Andre  suddenly  ceased  laughing;  flew  across  and 
caught  him  by  the  arm:  "Come  on,  you've  got  to 
help  about  your  party — it  isn't  done  by  Chicago  cater- 
ers." 

So  Stash  threw  himself  into  the  business  of  run- 
ning about  town  on  orders,  of  unstacking  chairs  and 
tables  and  stacking  them  again  where  they  weren't 
wanted,  and  executing  directions  with  such  fury  that 
Andre  invited  him  pressingly  to  take  a  rest,  and 
laughed  with  Louise  behind  his  back. 

in 

He  stopped  in  at  Fentree's  office  to  hale  him  home 
for  early  supper,  and  they  talked  on  the  way  home  with 
such  splendid  new-found  friendliness  that  Stash  de- 
veloped the  heightened  feeling  that  with  him  was  al- 


74       STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

ways  the  presage  of  a  great  night.  The  evening  sun- 
shine slanting  down  Wacaser  Street  "dressed"  it  like 
the  foyer  to  Adventure.  He  felt  that  he  might  do,  well 
— no  one  knew  what ! — to  honor  the  power  that  was  in 
him :  a  sort  of  royal  madness. 

It  commenced  to  have  full  play  right  after  supper, 
when  Andre  tied  an  apron  round  his  shoulders.  Before 
she  knew  it  he  had  twitched  it  about,  till  it  fell  like  an 
Inverness  cape,  and  was  imitating  old  Admiral  Siebold 
making  his  way  down  Pnnzep's  Bathhouse  hall.  The 
Admiral  confessed  a  locomotor  affection  that  made  one 
foot  as  naughty  as  a  dancer's.  Stash  had  mastered 
this  step,  and  shot  across  the  kitchen  with  one  foot 
while  he  lagged  with  the  other,  his  chequered  Inverness 
flowing  from  his  shoulders.  From  this  he  turned  to  a 
dance  step  that  the  Deveraux  Sisters  had  taught  him 
"in  back"  at  the  Frontenac. 

Louise's  purple  eyes  under  the  dark  cloud  of  hair 
gazed  shining  admiration :  "Oh,  Stash,  you  must  be 
the  grandest  dancer!  I  want  lots  of  S.  P.'s  on  my  card 
to-night!" 

"You're  just  crazy,"  said  Andre,  "go  out  and  shake 
this!" 

Stash  took  the  table  cover  and  grasped  Andre's  arm. 
"Of  course  I'm  crazy!  How'd  you  guess  it!  Come 
on  with  me!  There's  something  I  got  to  tell  you — 
right  now!" 

Out  on  the  porch  he  gathered  his  apron  in  his  hands 
rather  consciously  and  twisted  it  as  if  wringing  it  out 
vigorously.  Andre  wanted  to  protest  or  laugh,  but 
listened  patiently. 

"You  see,  it's  a  scheme!  Lee  Luders  say  it's  no 
good,  and  just  smiles.  But  you  listen!  When  I'm 
playing,  or  adding  figures,  I  just  try  to  go  blind!  I 


THE  SHADOW  OF  CASTLE  DURAND     75 

say:  'Let's  begin  right  where  we  left  off  last  time 
.  .  .  not  climb  all  over  that  again,  like  a  mountain 
that's  already  built  up !'  Just  zip  right  off  the  top  that 
mountain! — before  you've  got  time  to  think  about 
laggin'  up  again !  D'you  see !" 

"I  think  so !"  Andre  tried  not  to  smile ;  and  in  truth 
something  about  the  idea — or  his  energy! — thrilled 
her. 

"I  thought  maybe  you'd  try  it  in  your  music.  It's 
great!  Only  I  had  to  tell  you  right  then,  or  I  never 
would  have!" 

"That's  right! — I  know  what  you  mean  .  .  .  I've 
just  slumped  on  my  music,  Stash;  but  I  love  to  draw. 
Posters  and  things,  you  know.  I'll  show  you  some, 
maybe  to-night  .  .  ." 

"Sure — right  now !"  flashed  Stash. 

So  they  fairly  ran  through  butler's  pantry,  dining- 
room  and  hall,  and  perched  in  a  turn  of  the  stairway, 
where  Stash  crooned  over  the  pictures  she  spread  be- 
fore him.  There  were  wash  drawings  of  the  dunes, 
water  colors  of  golden  alders  on  Koban  Lake  road, 
and  pen  sketches  of  "characters"  like  old  Captain  Shiel- 
ing, the  lake  master.  With  Andre's  friendly  hands 
flopping  the  big  sheets  for  him,  the  clock  ticking  lazily 
on  the  landing,  and  an  air  of  party  expectancy  all 
through  the  house,  Stash  was  happy  as  a  lord. 

The  clock  began  to  strike.  "Oh,  we  can't  spend  an- 
other minute!"  Andre  exclaimed. 

"I  wish  I  could  send  some  of  these  to  Miss  Prinzep," 
said  Stash;  "she  draws  for  money." 

"Oh,  I'd  like  that!"  said  Andre,  tying  the  string 
and  tossing  the  folio  over  the  rail,  as  if  they  were  in- 
considerable things  of  which  she  took  no  care;  and 


76       STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

wondering  in  the  corner  of  her  mind  if  this  Miss 
Prinzep  was  anything! 

From  below  Louise  called,  and  Andre  responded: 
"King's  Ex.  Don't  be  fraptious." 

Nonetheless  they  made  it  a  point  to  saunter  down, 
and  Andre  said :  "You  remember  where  the  rugs  are 
to  go.  Stash,  and  get  Bob  and  Charlie  Dalhousie  to 
help.  And  please  don't  try  out  the  secret  process!" 
she  pretended  alarm,  laughingly.  She  surveyed  the 
double-decker  candle  shades  of  crimson  and  lime  green 
in  the  fern-banked  dining-room.  "It's  getting  the 
grandeur  smell — like  'chanted  gardens,"  she  said, 
breathing  deep. 

Stash  took  an  arm  of  each,  like  the  "juvenile  lead," 
doing  a  dance,  and  swung  them  back  into  the  wide 
doorway,  where  he  poised  to  mark  time;  then  swept 
them  forward  with  a  swelling  dip  to  right  and  left, 
chanting : 

"One  to  the  right — dip!  sniff  (suitable  business) 
three  ahead — dip!  sniff! — one  to  the  left — dip!  sniff! — 
that's  how  we  take  the  grandeur  smell! — Sniff! — 
Sniff 7 — SNIFF!"  Tremendous  bow  to  the  empty 
room! 

"Oh  Stash !  you  make  me  dizzy !"  Louise  exclaimed 
breathlessly,  "Are  you  going  to  keep  this  up  to-night?" 

"Sure!  Say,  are  the  Varika  girls  going  to  be  here?" 

Andre  and  Louise  looked  at  each  other. 

"I  telephoned,"  said  Andre,  drawing  down  the  silken 
brown  eyebrows  against  a  faintly  aquiline  nose,  and 
losing  all  laughter  from  her  concerned  gray  eyes,  "but 
I  don't  know  ...  I  think  Marika'll  come.  Jennika  is 
so  darn  haughty,  and  if  she  feels  the  least  uncomfort- 
able she  shows  it  with  a  head  on  high.  I  don't  think 
either  of  them  feels  very  comfortable  here." 


THE  SHADOW  OF  CASTLE  DURAND      77 

"They  used  to!"  said  Stash. 

"I  know — but  Marika's  been  with  her  uncle  a  lot — 
he's  a  strange  man — Father  John,  the  Polish  Catholic 
that's  building  the  big  new  church  downtown.  And 
Jennika,  well — Jennika's  'proud  as  a  black  horse'  her 
father  says.  Why — we'd  feel  uncomfortable  at  Rose 
Maddon's!" 

"I  shouldn't !"  said  Louise,  with  determination  dark- 
ening her  violet  eyes,  "and  I'm  going  to  get  in  her 
crowd  so  she'll  just  have  to  invite  me!  Just  think! 
she  used  to  play  with  us  before  they  moved  away  from 
the  Park  House — when  we  were  little." 

"I  don't  care  about  that,"  said  Andre,  "Rose  is  just 
as  smiley  and  nice  to  me  as  ever.  But  I'd  feel  too 
funny — trying  to  get  in.  .  .  .  There's  Bob  and  Char- 
lie !  They're  always  first  arrivals !" 

IV 

"I  see  you  again,  Stash!"  Bob  Dalhousie  declared 
pompously;  but  wrung  Stash's  hand.  Stash  held  it  in 
a  grip  of  steel.  There  was  a  moment  of  panic  for  him, 
in  which  he  nearly  ruined  Bob's  hand ;  but  once  in  the 
flush  of  welcoming  he  found  that  the  royal  madness 
swept  others  into  his  stride  with  fascinating  ease.  At 
times,  of  course,  he  overshot  himself.  There  were  ups 
and  downs. 

When  Louise  introduced  him  to  Ced  Morf 's  sister — 
Charlotte — while  Ced's  hand  still  eagerly  clutched  his 
arm — he  felt  himself  indeed  the  Prince  of  the  Night, 
and  that  as  such  a  Prince  he  could  do  no  wrong. 

Then  Marika  Varika  came:  and  in  his  elation  at 
finding  the  happy  stars  just  swimming  in  her  black  and 
gold  eyes,  old  loving  memories  pumped  madness  into 
his  heart.  He  put  both  hands  under  her  shoulders  and 


78        STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

lifted  her  right  off  the  floor.  She  was  so  small  that 
he  felt  her  the  same  little  Marika  of  Koban  Lake,  only 
gloriously  prettier;  and  himself  a  great  grown  up 
brother.  .  .  .  Why  then  should  they  stare?  .  .  .  But 
they  did,  and  chuckled  as  at  someone  drunk.  .  .  . 
Tucking  his  arm  down  through  hers,  he  swung  across 
the  room  to  Andre.  Haughtily  he  would  carry  it  off — 
his  head  towering  back — his  black  eyes  flashing  with 
supreme  good-natured  insolence. 

He  could  see  the  quick  effort  to  retire  awkward 
smiles.  He  would  not  consent  to  be  anything  less  than 
the  Prince — not  in  the  towering  humor  he  was  in.  Not 
even  when  Tom  Shieling  arrived,  and  homage  greeted 
him — the  only  college  fellow  in  the  lot,  and  a  head 
taller  than  any  other  man  in  the  rooms.  Stash  had 
always  had  a  feeling  of  half  admiration,  half  repulsion 
for  Shieling;  ever  since  he  had  beaten  Varsh  so  fear- 
fully. That  was  a  grotesquely  terrible  memory:  for 
he  had  not  been  loyal  to  Varsh  that  day.  In  the  lone- 
some first  nights  in  Detroit  it  was  that  memory  that  he 
had  cried  over  more  bitterly  than  any  other. 


When  cards  were  over,  Andre,  at  the  piano,  helped 
Stash  tune  his  violin,  and  dancing  began.  .  .  .  No  one 
dreamed  that  Stash  could  play  like  this.  Andre  felt  a 
flush  burning  her  cheeks,  and  bit  her  lips  to  keep  down 
the  nervous  quiver  of  delight.  When  he  had  pulled 
her  out  on  the  porch  to  tell  her  his  magic  idea  so  sol- 
emnly .  .  .  what  a  crazy  boy ! .  .  .  she  had  thought  it  ab- 
surdly delicious.  Was  he  trying  to  show  her  now? 
.  .  .  and  succeeding!  ...  or  was  it  just  to-night's 
madness,  which  had  blared  out  so  crudely  in  his 


THE  SHADOW  OF  CASTLE  DURAND      79 

swinging  Marika  off  the  floor !    That  had  angered  her ! 

As  she  calmed  to  her  playing,  she  realized  that 
Stash's  work  was  far  from  "finished" — that  he  cov- 
ered his  lapses  with  a  swashbuckling  bravura  to  rescue 
him  just  an  instant  late  from  those  luxurious  dreamy 
whimperings.  Oh,  if  he  only  danced  as  well!  .  .  . 
And  when  she  came  to  dance  with  him  it  was  a  sort  of 
disappointment.  Clearly,  he  did  well  only  those  things 
he  really  wanted  to. 

Louise,  though,  was  fully  satisfied.  She  wondered 
if  Barbara  Imbrie  could  be  as  proud  of  Gus,  or  Char- 
lotte Morf  of  Ced.  It  was  a  new  and  touching  fervor, 
this  being  proud  of  a  big  brother. 

"Oh,  Stash!"  she  whispered  in  his  ear,  "if  we  could 
only  be  having  your  playing  now !" 

He  chuckled — then  burst  into  a  short  laugh. 

"You  needn't  laugh !"  Louise  protested. 

"I  was  just  thinking!"  said  Stash. 

A  little  later  his  laugh  was  explained.  He  drew 
Marika  out  on  the  upper  gallery  between  dances.  Down 
through  the  black  maples  street  lamps  twinkled,  and 
across  the  depths  of  his  lawn  Captain  Shieling's  win- 
dows glowed  bright.  .  .  . 

"Oh,  I  could  never!"  Marika  despaired. 

Stash  chuckled:  "You're  the  only  one  that  can — 
come  on!" 

So  in  through  the  hall  they  trooped  and  down  the 
stairs:  and  when  the  next  dance  began,  Stash  and 
Marika  floated  off — Stash  playing,  swaying  with  his 
violin ;  Marika  catching  and  twirling  him  as  they  float- 
ed together ;  Stash  spinning  extravagantly  at  her  touch 
as  though  he  were  a  musical  toy,  a  singing  top.  At  the 
close  Stash  passed  his  violin  to  Marika,  and  with  a  mel- 
low thin  crooning  did  a  passable  imitation  of  the  violin, 


whi/e  Marika  bowed  with  phantom  strokes  and  spun 
at  his  touch. 

A  rattle  of  applause  went  round;  other  jinks  were 
called  for;  the  piano  fluttered  its  confetti  bright  finale, 
which  dwindled  and  died  away.  Refreshments  were 
served,  and  the  fellows  crowded  out  on  the  front  gal- 
lery. Ced  Morf  clapped  Stash  on  the  shoulder:  "If 
they  have  any  better  entertainers  than  you  and  Rika 
up  at  Maddon's,  they're  having  fun." 

"After  we  leave  here,"  someone  exclaimed,  "let's 
roll  up  that  way  and  look  on.  ...  I  know  a  tree,  on 
the  side  near  Hazen's." 

"If  I  got  that  far,  I'd  go  in!"  Stash's  hoarse  voice 
boomed. 

"Yes,  you  would." 

"Sure  I'd  go  in! — but  when  I  got  that  far  I'd  have 
to  dance  with  Rose." 

Several  laughed.  "I'd  like  to  see  you,  Stash !"  Char- 
lie Dalhousie  spoke,  half  in  hope  that  Stash  would  take 
the  dare. 

"Would  easy!"  declared  Stash,  "I'll  be  back  and  tell 
you  about  it  in  an  hour." 

"Go  on !    Go  ahead !    'Sa'boy !"  several  shouted. 
"Sure!"   said  Stash,  and  sprang  over  the  railing. 
He  was  off  up  the  street,  while  the  others  laughed  and 
expostulated  with  each  other:     "He  won't!"  "See  if 
he  don't!" 

"Will  he  do  it,  Tom?"  young  Delafield  asked. 
Tom   Shieling  glanced  steadily  a  moment  at  the 
lights  across  his  grandfather  Shieling's  lawn  and  re- 
sponded gruffly:    "Shouldn't  wonder." 


THE  SHADOW  OF  CASTLE  DURAND      81 

CHAPTER  III 


Stash  was  swinging  up  Wacaser  Street  towards  the 
ridge,  springing  hotly  along  in  spurts  of  splendid  ex- 
citement. He  had  pledged  his  word.  Of  course  he 
meant  to  do  it.  The  tree  was  one  step.  From  that  to 
the  coping  that  ran  along  the  upper  windows.  He 
must  crawl  by  hanging  to  that  molding  until  he  reached 
the  old  stairway  well,  and  there  the  upper  hall  would 
be  ...  unless  the  remodeling  had  changed  all  that. 
His  heart  beat  faster  at  the  thought.  But  it  was  too 
late  to  change  his  plan.  He  must  push  it  through  now 
and  in  some  way  win  to  Rose.  He  need  not  plan  be- 
yond that — his  daring  he  believed  would  excuse  him  in 
her  eyes. 

Paper  lanterns  among  the  dim  clumps  and  along 
the  curving  walks  discovered  a  way  to  the  house,  but 
Stash  swerved  off  from  this  carnival  route  towards  the 
dim  part  of  the  grounds  remembered  from  old  holi- 
days. He  came  beneath  the  orange  block  of  the  win- 
dow, and  swung  up  into  the  tree.  His  heart  was 
beating  now,  throbbing  joyously  as  though  under  the 
roll  of  his  bow.  He  wanted  to  stop  long  enough  to 
relish  the  sighing  softness  of  the  summer  night,  and 
the  murmur  and  plash  of  laughing  voices.  .  .  . 

But  without  hesitation  he  swung  for  the  stone 
stringcourse,  from  which  he  had  hung  and  slid  him- 
self along  in  the  old  days.  He  found  it  even  less  fear- 
some than  it  had  been  by  daylight,  and  worked  steadily 
along  to  the  window  which  should  be  above  the  stair- 
case well. 


82       STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

He  had  a  hand  on  the  window  ledge  and  was  rais- 
ing himself,  when  he  heard  a  shout  and  a  trill  of  femi- 
nine laughter,  and  then  the  shuffle  of  feet  on  bare  stairs. 
He  saw  that  he  must  insert  himself  between  the  pass- 
ings of  stairway  troopers;  and,  keeping  out  of  sight, 
lifted  himself  to  a  footing  on  the  stone  molding  while 
clutching  the  window  embrasure.  An  oblique  view  of 
stairs  and  landing  gave  him  his  bearings ; — and  with  a 
twist  he  thrust  himself  in. 


II 

There  on  the  landing  he  paused  an  instant.  The 
blood  drummed  in  his  ears.  The  floor  began  to  sink 
with  him.  .  .  .  Panic  now!  Not  to  be  thought  of! 

Down  the  hall  he  swung,  past  several  loitering  cou- 
ples, with  a  brusquerie  that  admitted  of  no  question- 
ing. His  one  saving  prospect  was  to  keep  on  the  move. 
Happily  the  boys  weren't  all  in  evening  dress,  and 
though  several  stared  at  him  as  if  wondering  who  this 
fellow  was,  no  overt  frowns  were  aimed  his  way.  And 
so  began  his  patrol  of  the  more  secluded  parts  of  the 
upper  house.  Before  long  he  felt  that  he  had  acquired 
the  technique  of  rounding  corners  with  the  cavalier 
hitch  and  scuffle  of  ownership. 

In  the  friendly  passages  of  semi-dusk,  where  clumps 
of  musky  dank  greeneries  scarfed  the  lights,  a  grin 
broke  the  hard  line  of  his  mouth.  The  mossy  smell  of 
these  combined  with  subtly  coiling  perfume  ban- 
ners and  vague  savors  from  some  silver-clattering  ex- 
tremity of  the  house  to  produce  a  "grandeur  smell,"  oh, 
grander  by  far  than  that  acclaimed  by  Andrea  of  the 
Fentrees. 


Ill 

A  two-step  re-fired  his  courage.  He  could  have 
hugged  himself  when  he  found  a  niche  between  two 
palm  tubs  on  the  gallery  above  the  dancing  floor  of  hall 
and  parlour,  where  he  could  watch  for  Rose  Maddon's 
tawny  gold  crest  to  float  into  view.  .  .  .  When  it  came 
he  saw  that  a  radiance  of  high  happiness  seemed  to  set 
off  her  head  as  had  the  black  spotlight  of  the  morning 
.  .  .  Or  did  he  imagine  this ! 

His  heated  fancy  followed  her  about  the  room.  Se- 
cure of  himself  he  leaned  on  the  balcony  rail  and  mur- 
mured :  "What  a  little  beauty ;  what  a  Princess!"  Yet 
in  his  heart  he  knew  that  he  was  vamping  praise  for 
her,  while  his  real  zest  was  in  what  he  deemed  a  fitting 
approval  of  her  beauty  as  a  prelude  mainly  to  his  own 
delicious  exploit.  The  overtones  of  his  dashing  Stash- 
iness  blurred  the  theme.  Just  one  person  in  the  world 
twanged  something  hot  and  aching  in  his  heart — little 
Marika! — who  used  to  cross  hands  with  him,  and  al- 
ways wanted  him  to  beat. 

Before  his  vision  was  just  a  shimmer  of  lights, 
faces,  and  colors  like  visible  perfume,  as  he  swung 
down  the  stairs  and  presented  himself  at  Rose's  side. 
He  heard  himself  like  a  determined  voice  through  a 
megaphone :  "I've  got  'n  important  message  for  you, 
come  out  on  the  porch." 

Her  glance,  a  little  startled,  a  little  laughing,  he 
caught  a  glimpse  of  as  he  turned  to  lead  the  way.  She 
followed.  He  had  intended  to  say  something  unique 
and  flashing;  but  this  set-speech  had  been  his  only 
recourse  at  the  critical  instant.  His  only  feeling  now 
was  one  of  elation  that  she  was  following. 


84-       STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

Out  in  a  corner  against  the  cool  stone  balustrade  he 
felt  far  more  possessed  of  himself. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked  hurriedly. 

"I  was  afraid  maybe  you'd  think  I  was  fresh  this 
morning.  I  got  to  thinkin'  about  it  to-night — and  that 
fiddle  that  talks  to  me  got  to  sayin' — 'Go  up  an'  tell 
her!' " — He  was  using  the  crooning  violin  voice  in 
which  he  often  talked  to  that  fiddle — mingled  with  a 
kind  of  gruff  aggression.  ..."  'If  that's  how  you 
feel,'  I  said,  'I'll  go! — but  you  may  be  stringin'  me!'  ' 

"Just  stringing  you — terribly!"  said  Rose  Maddon, 
with  a  ring  in  her  voice  of  decision  and  of  restrained 
laughter. 

"So  I  came!"  Stash's  voice  leapt  out  in  a  startling 
flash  of  assertion,  " because  of  course  it's  my  house  and 
I  had  a  right." 

"Your  house!" 

"Why,  my  mother  told  me  ol'  Whaleback  cheated 
my  father  to  build  it.  I  used  to  climb  all  over  it — an' 
never  knew!  So  to-night  I  got  from  that  tree  to  the 
side  of  the  wall  and  slid  along  till  I  got  to  the  hall." 
His  voice  was  less  crooning,  more  aggressive. 

"Got  in  that  way ! — I  wondered " 

"Yessir!"  said  Stash,  yielding  to  the  rush  of  the 
royal  madness,  "I  caught  hold  that  ledge  an'  slid  along 
till  I  could  reach  up  to  the  window."  He  heard  her 
catch  her  breath.  "But  I  knew  it  would  be  worth  it  if 
I  could  get  in  and  see  you !  I  been  a  gallery  god  be- 
fore!— but  I  never  saw  anything  so  shinin' — great! 
like  you  had  a  yellow  spotlight  shinin'  round  your 
head!  Same  as  this  mornin'  it  was  a  black  spot." 

"That's  what  you  meant  by  a  black  spot  on  me!  It 
sounded  like  gipsy  fortune-telling!  But  see  here! — 


THE  SHADOW  OF  CASTLE  DURAND      85 

I  don't  understand ! — you  daring  to  talk  about  this  be- 
longing to  you " 

Her  speech  ran  none  too  smoothly  in  her  agitated 
desire  to  dismiss  him  and  the  desire  to  follow  it  a  little 
further.  "You  apologize  for  your  freshness  this  morn* 
ing  when  you  didn't  do  much  of  anything,  and ' 

"That's  'cause  you  did  the  same!" 

"And  now  you  break  into  a  house  and  say  it's  yours, 
and — you're  worrying  about  being  fresh  this  morn- 
ing!" Her  breath  fluttered  excitedly. 

"But  that's  nothing!"  said  Stash,  throwing  out  his 
arms  .  .  .  chuckling!  .  .  .  "I'm  going  to  dance  with 
you  too!" 

Rose  Maddon  caught  in  a  little  breath  of  astonish- 
ment. 

"Sure!  I  want  to  see  how  my  head  would  look 
travelin'  in  that  gold  spotlight!  ...  of  your  hair!" 

"But  you  wouldn't  see  it  if  you  were !" 

" — Dancin'  with  you!"  S*tash  finished  her  sentence 
as  though  she  had  affirmed  his  desire. 

"You — you! — I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  you!" 
Anger  and  nervous  laughter  broke  her  voice.  The 
sound  of  that  broken  chime  thrilled  Stash. 

"Well,  I'm  givin'  you  a  chance  to  learn!"  he  re- 
torted; "this  morning  you  said  I  was  the  prettiest  Po- 
lak  boy  you  ever  saw !  .  .  .  Ho !  I  forgot  about  that 
when  I  was  feelin'  bad  about  my  bein'  fresh  to  you! 
You  were  safe  up  in  the  pipe  then!  .  .  .  'Course  I 
knew  you  said  it  to  make  fun ! — an'  so  I  come  to-night 
for  revenge!  Make  her  dance  with  you! — somethin' 
said — my  fiddle  I  guess.  Just  like  a  play,  you  see — I 
dance  with  the  girl  in  the  evenin'  that  in  the  mornin' 
was  makin'  fun —  And  then  here!  it's  like  a  play 
again — My  old  uncle  Whaleback  that  owned  this 


86       STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

and  that  dad  of  mine — and  now  me  comin'  back  like  a 
ghost  on  the  night  of  the  big  party!"  He  chuckled 
again :  "But  this  is  different  to  any  play  you  ever  saw 
— ho — ho! — did  you  ever  ]war  of  such  a  one? " 

"How  .  .  .  what? " 

" — The  ghost  ends  up  by  dancin'  with  the  girl! 
Never  one  like  that  before!" 

He  towered  over  her,  vibrating  with  laughing  reso- 
lution. Several  dark  figures  had  rushed  by  their  cor- 
ner :  the  music  had  begun :  and  Stash  sketched  a  quick 
step  in  the  direction  of  the  light;  then  whirled  back 
with  head  held  high  but  hands  thrown  out:  "Please!" 
Just  one  word,  his  manner  suddenly  swerved  from 
laughing  aggression  to  husky  pleading.  An  instant's 
pause  and — as  he  saw  her  half  yielding — he  slipped 
his  hand  through  her  arm  and  launched  confidently 
ahead.  Rose  swayed  on  beside  him :  across  the  veranda 
terrace ;  through  the  double  French  windows :  out  on 
the  glistening  floor. 

IV 

The  dance  was  a  schottische;  and  Stash  cut  a  poor 
figure  to  begin  with,  for  in  his  impetuosity  he  rushed 
it  to  half -step  time.  But  having  caught  the  proper 
shading  he  danced  as  he  had  not  danced  with  Andre 
this  night — or  even  with  Marika.  Rose's  delicate  light- 
ness flattered  his  strength  like  a  fragrance:  an  exqui- 
site favor  to  make  herself  so  fleeting  on  his  arm. 

He  forgot  that  it  was  his  young  vigor  that  wafted 
her  like  a  steady  following  breeze,  a  breeze  as  taut  as 
quivering  steel.  But  always  he  remembered  that  he 
wa«  demonstrating  the  royal  madness,  for  its  honor 
and  his  own.  .  .  .  The  music  ceased  like  a  crystal 
breaking,  and  they  stepped  out  as  from  its  shard  like 


THE  SHADOW  OF  CASTLE  DURAND      87 

conjured  things,  and  floated  back  to  the  dark  corner  of 
the  stone  floored  terrace. 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  have  known  you  could  dance  like 
that!"  Rose  Maddon's  voice  still  trembled  and  broke 
...  "I  thought  it  was  going  to  be  horrible  at  first, — 
but  all  of  a  sudden  you  got  on — just  on  a  boat  as  if 
we'd  boarded  it!"  . 

Stash's  chuckle  could  not  disguise  his  husky  exulta- 
tion: "I  never  danced  that  before.  .  .  .  Saw  Max 
Dunrin  staring  at  me.  Thought  I  was  crazy,  I  guess." 

"You  know  Max?" 

"Sure — knew  him  when  I  was  a  little  fellow  and 
thought  you  were  red  all  over." 

"Red  all— Mercy!" 

Stash  chuckled :  "Andre  was  playing  paints,  and 
said — 'I  know  a  girl  that's  pretty  nearly  Rose  Madder 
— guess !'  An'  they  guessed  you.  So  I  thought  you 
were  all  kind  of  pinky-pretty  like  a  fairy  story  .  .  . 
even  hair.  .  .  .  With  a  little  red  star  on  top !" 

"Oh,  you  added  that  recently,  the  star — I  can  tell  by 
the  sound  of  your  voice!" 

Stash  laughed  again. 

"Was  it  Andre  Fentree  you  mean !  We  used  to  take 
music  of  an  old  professor,  I  don't  know  whatever  be- 
came of  him.  That  must  have  been  about  the  time  you 
were  there.  Because  I  seem  to  remember  about  you 
.  .  .  your  father  was  .  .  ." 

"Shot?  .  .  .  That  was  Uncle  Jan.  My  real  father's 
somewhere  now — where,  I  don't  know ;  singin'  places — 
crazy,  I  guess.  That's  where  I  get  it !"  he  laughed. 

"Oh,  that's  kind  of  terrible!"  Rose  breathed  jerk- 
ily. She  felt  somehow  touched;  and  something  about 
his  distressing  and  tragic  history  made  his  strong 
young  confidence  strange  and  haunting.  She  was  con- 


88       STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

scious,  yes,  exultantly  conscious  of  the  sensation  that 
she  had  made  in  dancing  with  him.  There  was  about 
him  something  forceful  that  darkened  a  place  for  him 
in  her  memory.  He  was  ...  not  only  the  ghost  out 
of  the  past  of  the  big  house  .  .  .  but  the  stranger 
who  had  swung  in  out  of  the  night  .  .  .  out  of  a  dark 
of  mystery  and  something  terrible,  at  which  he 
laughed. 

She  shuddered  a  little  as  she  touched  his  sleeve :  "I 
must  go  in  now  .  .  .  but  tell  Mr.  Fentree  .  .  . 
Andre's  father  .  .  .  that  something  is  working 
against  him.  .  .  .  But  not  where  you  heard.  .  .  ." 

Stash  pressed  her  elbow :  "Then  see  me  off — up  the 
stairs,  sure! — By  the  tree." 

With  a  deprecating  laugh  she  assented.  They  sped 
across  the  hall  and  wound  through  the  crowding 
group  on  the  stairway.  Rose's  face  flushed  proudly 
under  their  stares.  Just  this  united  her  to  Stash  in 
a  kind  of  loyalty.  Max  Dunrin  caught  Stash's  sleeve 
at  the  stair-head:  "Hello,  Stash!"  Stash  gripped  his 
hand  a  fierce  instant  and  hurried  on  round  the  corner. 
In  a  flash  he  was  through  the  window,  and  as  he  sunk 
out  of  sight  called  back : 

"Goo'bye,  Rose  Madder,  in  a  shinin'  spot !" 

She  reached  for  his  hand  just  too  late.  In  spite  of 
the  curious  stares  of  two  who  had  just  descended  the 
upper  flight,  she  waited  till  she  heard  him  crashing  his 
way  through  the  tree,  and  then  leaned  out  to  wave  an 
arm.  .  .  .  She  heard  his  husky  abbreviated  "  'Bye !" 
.  .  .  and  continued  to  lean  from  the  window,  letting 
the  night  trail  its  nameless  cool  fragrance  across  her 
cheek.  .  .  .  To-morrow  she  would  love  to  dwell  on 
this  moment.  .  .  .  Like  a  play  .  .  .  just  as  he  had 
said. 


JHE  SHADOW  OF  CASTLE  DURAND     89 


A  distress  mingled  with  Stash's  pride  as  he  swung 
down  the  long  slope  of  Wacaser  hill.  What  would 
she  think — that  Rose  girl — when  she  learned  that  he 
had  done  it  on  a  bet?  The  rich  blackness  of  the  trees 
over-arched  his  mood  with  something  vaulted  and  sigh- 
ing, as  if  an  unknown  music  were  whispering  there. 
Like  the  great  vaulted  ship  of  his  dreams,  it  brought 
memories  of  Varsh ;  and  a  sadness  for  something  neg- 
lected weighed  on  him.  Good  old  Varsh ! — he  must  see 
him  to-morrow.  See  them  all!  he  determined  fiercely 
— Varsh  and  Marika's  people.  And  write  his  mother 
to-night. 

Full  of  splendid  resolves,  he  sprang  up  the  steps, — 
and  found  the  fellows  round  him  in  a  moment.  "Had 
he  done  it!  ...  had  he  got  in!  ...  really  danced 
with  her!" 

"It  seemed  awful  like  it,"  said  Stash,  "see  if  they 
say  so  to-morrow." 

Alois  Shabbata  called  for  Marika;  and  before  she 
left  she  made  Stash  promise  to  come  out  to  Koban 
Lake  the  next  morning.  His  brother  Varsh  had  been 
having  some  trouble  with  Karshenko  and  hadn't 
worked  for  two  or  three  days.  "The  last  time  you 
were  here,  after  you  left  he  moped  so.  So  sure  you'll 
come?  .  .  ." 

And  when  Stash  promised,  such  a  thrill  wavered 
through  her  "Good-night"  that  anyone  but  a  fellow 
too  conscious  of  being  The  Prince  of  the  Night  would 
have  felt  some  quivering  presage  in  it. 


90       STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 
CHAPTER  IV 


Riding  downtown  on  the  car  next  morning,  Stash 
found  a  chance  to  speak  to  Fentree  of  Rose  Maddon's 
impulsive  warning: 

"Say! — I  wanted  to  tell  you  what  that  Rose  said 
last  night.  .  .  .  Something  about  you  should  watch 
out.  ..."  He  remembered  too  late  that  he  was  to 
keep  her  name  dark. 

"I  see! "  muttered  Fentree.  Stash  noted  his 

new  wrinkles  and  the  added  sparkle  in  his  iron-gray 
hair.  "Probably  the  Gorski  suit  against  Valley  Elec- 
tric. I've  been  trying  to  settle  it  out  of  court — but 
Maddon  and  Marantle  are  solid  against  it.  Have  a  tip 
probably  that  Judge  Tragressor  is  going  to  throw  it 
their  way.  But  where  Rose  could  catch  anything?  .  .  . 
Perhaps  she  heard  something  from  Stella  Tragressor. 
.  .  .  She's  just  spunky  enough — Rose — not  to  love  the 
Marantles,  because  her  father  and  big  Clem  Marantle 
put  their  heads  together  to  hand  her  Hugh  for  a  hus- 
band— and  probably  made  a  big  noise  putting  them  to- 
gether! .  .  .  Rose  has  always  been  my  good  friend — 
ever  since  she  used  to  stand  on  the  Park  house  fence 
and  coohoo  to  me  in  her  little  girl  voice.  Cabmen  and 
tramp  dogs  and  me ! — she  liked  us  great !" 

Stash  laughed,  and  glanced  at  the  thin  smiling  face, 
with  proud  pleasure  in  such  a  friend  as  Mister  Fen. 

"I've  been  wondering,"  said  the  lawyer,  -"if  you'd 
care  to  study  law  in  my  office  this  summer.  I  could 
fix  you  up  a  desk  and  turn  you  loose  on  Kent  and 


THE  SHADOW  OF  CASTLE  DURAND      91 

Story.  And  I'd  like  to  have  you — eventually,  you 
know — go  in  with  me  ...  I'd — I'd  be  delighted." 

Stash's  eyes  sparkled.  "Great!  I  want  to  cut  loose 
from  High  School  anyway.  Too  old  for  my  class  and 
all." 

Fentree  smiled  at  Stash's  availing  himself  of  the 
school  quitting  point  so  alertly :  "You  know  it's  slow 
stuff.  Terribly  slow.  And  discouraging.  .  .  .  There's 
just  one  thing: — if  you  could  catch  the  feeling  I've 
had  for  years — about  doing  something  for  those  gen- 
erous folks — your  Koban  Lake  people — and  those  here 
in  Durand — like  old  Gorski ; — it  would  make  it  a  splen- 
did fight  for  you!" — He  straightened  his  shoulders  as 
he  spoke.  "But  of  course  my  feeling  began  in  pecu- 
liar circumstances;  and  you  might  find  it  pretty  dull 
business.  You  might  take  to  newspaper  work,  for  in- 
stance, a  lot  better.  .  .  .  Suppose  we  cross  over  to  old 
Hartranft's — you  remember  Hart — and  see  if  he  has 
anything  you'd  like  to  do  this  summer." 

« 

ii 

So  at  Fentree's  motion  they  invaded  the  Czech  print- 
ing loft ;  and  Stash  submitted  to  the  big  printer's  good- 
humored  scrutiny. 

"A  long  time,"  said  the  massive  Bohemian,  "since  I 
told  you  and  Fentree's  girls  to  hop  on  my  shadow  and 
I'd  pull  you  upstairs.  Here  you  are  again,  but  my 
shadow  wouldn't  hang  together  under  such  a  treat- 
ment !" 

"Sure — here  again !"  said  Stash,  lunging  to  the  point, 
"and  looking  for  a  job  this  time." 

"You  won't  like  it,"  said  Hartranft,  in  tall  toler- 
ance of  human  nature,  "but  it's  yours !"  And  just  that 


92       STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

simply  Stash  found  himself  warped  into  a  summer's 

job. 

"Why  didn't  you  bring  along  that  Andre — and  the 
Little  Lady  of  the  Lady  Island?"  Hartranft  had 
picked  up  McCandlish's  title  for  Louise. 

"The  Lady  is  cumbered  with  a  Black  Ward  share, 
I'm  afraid,"  said  Fentree.  "Hendrie  has  assessed  us 
and  painted  and  paraffined,  and  housed  in  the  winches. 
Five  years  of  puttering!  She'll  weather  another 
winter  nicely,  but  the  money's  exhausted  again.  Mac 
is  interested  in  his  scalping  offices  in  Detroit  and  Mack- 
inac,  and  I  don't  know  of  anything  better  we  can  do 
than  sell  out  to  old  Brerton  and  let  him  do  the  coffer- 
damming  and  floating !  .  .  . 

"Well,  be  good  to  Hart,  Stash— and  I'll  see  you 
later." 

in 

Stash  came  home  to  lunch  a  spendthrift  of  enthusi- 
asm. Fentree's  eyes  shone :  "You  hit  the  old  boy  just 
right!" 

Stash  laughed  at  this  exultantly:  "But  he  told  me 
after  you'd  gone  that  he  didn'  want  me  .  .  .  that  he 
took  me  to  please  you — that  he'd  do  anything  for! 
Just  like  that!"  He  chuckled  triumphantly. 

Fentree  first  looked  pleased,  and  then  frowned :  "He 
needn't  have  thrown  any  fits  to  please  me — maybe 
you'd  have  got  the  idea  to  come  into  my  office  to  study 
if  he  hadn't  snapped  you  up."  He  scowled  whimsi- 
cally. 

"Oh,  I'm  going  to  do  that  anyway,"  Stash  ex- 
claimed, "nights!  I  want  to  make  so  much  gain  Rynia 
won't  know  me ! — when  I  get  back !" 


THE  SHADOW  OF  CASTLE  DURAND      93 

"Nights!"  chided  Louise,  "where  will  our  fun  be 
then!" 

"Don't  you  worry !"  Fentree  smiled,  "his  night  work 
won't  have  any  noticeable  effect  on  that!"  He  could 
hardly  expect  a  great  deal  from  Stash's  resolution  to 
study  at  night;  and  it  had  been  a  secret  hope  in  his 
heart  that  Stash  would  throw  in  his  young  strength 
with  him.  He  realized  that  he  felt  a  sort  of  property 
in  the  boy  and  had  hoped  to  make  him  a  leader  for  his 
people.  That  somehow  seemed  the  fine  and  noble  thing 
that  he  had  always  hoped  to  do  for  them!  .  .  .  And 
the  chance  was  sliding  by. 


CHAPTER  V 


Stash  put  off  his  visit  to  Koban  Lake  till  Sunday; 
and  found  the  blacksmith  Karshenko  glooming  under 
the  alders  at  the  hostinets.  .  .  .  Varsh  had  left  him! 
.  .  .  Gone!  .  .  .  He  didn't  know  where.  To-mor- 
row he  would  start  off  to  find  him.  And  Stash — why 
hadn't  he  come  yesterday? — his  brother  had  expected 
him  all  day  long! 

Marika  looked  sadly  at  Stash — standing  trim  but 
blank  faced  before  the  lavitza.  She  had  been  listening 
to  the  blacksmith,  while  the  others  had  slipped  away 
from  the  vicinity  of  his  gloomy  haranguing. 

They  reappeared  presently :  Varika  with  a  plunge 
that  took  Stash  aback  in  his  slack-limbed  chagrin.  Mrs. 
Varika  greeted  him  with  astonished  pleasure,  and  Jen- 
nika  flushed  with  startled  delight.  Anetka  then — a 
water-lily  for  pink  freshness — looked  way  up  into  his 


94       STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

face  as  if  at  something  far  off  and  magnificent.  .  .  . 
He  had  counted  on  all  this,  grinning  at  the  prospect ; 
but  his  grin  now  was  stiff  with  discomfiture.  Why 
hadn't  he  come  yesterday,  when  everything  would  have 
run  to  the  carefree  rush  he  loved  to  lead ! 

"You  do  look  some  like  Varsh,"  said  Jennika,  "only 
I'd  know  you  never  came  from  round  here!"  Her 
blush,  with  its  camellia  white  creaming  round  the  rest- 
less rose,  was  a  challenge  of  joy  and  glory.  It  fluttered 
an  answering  quiver  in  Stash's  heart;  but  again  the 
lonesome  desire  to  have  seen  Varsh  made  his  pulse 
go  dull. 

ii 

He  escaped  at  last  with  Marika  to  the  old  grape 
arbor  above  the  creek,  where  they  could  sit  in  the  old 
childish  confidence  and  security. 

"You  feel  worried  about  Varsh  ?"  she  said. 

"No! — no!"  said  Stash,  shaking  back  his  head  for 
freedom  from  that  oppression. 

"Yes  you  do,"  Marika  smiled  a  little  sadly. 

Stash  stared  off  across  the  shimmering  prairie  still- 
ness. Marika's  hand  caught  his.  At  once  the  aching 
lonesomeness  burst  from  his  heart. 

"Thunder!"  He  shot  out  his  clenched  fist:  "Oh, 
you  know  then,  Rik,  I  do !  But  why's  it  got  to  bother 
me  when  I  havn'  done  anything!"  He  turned  on  her 
a  face  of  angry  perplexity. 

"Don't  be  angry !  It's  'cause — just  you  can't  forget 
some  little  thing — like  the  way  he  stumbled  on  the 
road  that  day  Tom  Shieling  had  hurt  him  so." 

"I  know "  Stash  muttered,  "I'm  thinkin'  of  that 

.  .  .  And  when  he  use  to  help  me  fish,  an'  he  carried 


THE  SHADOW  OF  CASTLE  DURAND      95 

me  roun'  on  his  back — so  little  that  it  seems  like  a  little 
boy  he  was !"  He  gruffed  a  mournful  little  laugh. 

"He  was!"  Marika  smiled  so  that  her  eyes  swam 
like  a  falcon's,  "only  you  were  littler!  But  it  seems 
now  like  you  could  have  carried  him!" 

"Sure !"    Stash  laughed  gruffly  again. 

"I  know — 'cause .  that's  the  way  I  feel  about  Jen- 
nika  sometimes.  She'll  be  so  glorr'ous  an'  shining  for 
Varsh — then  she'll  be  mean  to  him,  an'  go  an'  cry !  Oh, 
Stash,  I  feel  so  sorry  for  Jennika  sometimes  I  want  to 
tell  somebody.  That's  the  reason  I  spoke  to  you  about 
Varsh,  'cause  I  thought  maybe  we'd  both  feel  better." 
She  smiled  a  little,  as  if  apologizing  for  interfering. 

Stash  knitted  his  brows :  "Maybe  it  wasn'  good  for 
you  in  that  Notre  Dame  convent.  .  .  .  /  couldn'  staiy) 
it  there!" 

"They  wouldn't  have  you  there!"  Marika  twinkled. 

They  broke  out  laughing  together,  and  wandered 
back  to  the  hostinets. 

in 

After  dinner  Stash  walked  with  the  three  girls  down 
to  Koban  Lake,  and  rowed  them  over  to  the  marsh 
side.  Those  three  girls  were  like  the  pink  and  white 
water-lilies  they  found  there.  Their  eyes  were  on 
Stash,  their  gay  chatter  in  his  ears.  How  they  laughed 
at  his  stories  of  Porson's  Landing  and  the  trips  he  and 
Lee  Luders  had  taken  up  the  Detroit  in  their  "home- 
made catboat." 

The  lowering  sun  raised  a  million  crusty  twinklings 
on  the  lake.  The  girls  wandered  some  little  ways 
down  the  road  with  Stash  before  he  left  them.  And 
he  would  have  finished  the  day  in  happy  conceit  with 
himself  if  he  hadn't  fallen  in  with  Karshenko.  The 


96       STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

blacksmith  began  to  argue  that  he  had  really  done 
nothing — as  if  Stash  could  arbitrate  the  case  in  his 
favor  and  bring  Varsh  back. 

"Varika  says  we  could  make  a  music  like  a  whole 
hitdba,  an'  by  God,  we  could!  Wat  fun  in  the  eve- 
nings— wid  our  accordions!  Boy,  you  look  like  him 
lots,  but  you  wouldn't  never  be  such  a  partner.  I  been 
trying  to  tell  you,"  he  declared  angrily,  "if  you  see 
him — you  tell  him  old  Karsh  is  a  damn  fool,  an'  would 
let  him  call  him  anything  worse — if  he  would  just 
a  kinda  come  back!" 


One  morning  the  Fentree  girls  insisted  on  accom- 
panying Stash  to  the  printing  office,  to  see  just  what 
kind  of  bottle-washer  he  was.  The  lawns  all  the  way 
up  Wacaser  ridge  were  so  sparkling  fresh  from  last 
night's  coolness  that  they  enjoyed  flouting  the  street 
car  and  let  it  clang  by  unheeded. 

Hartranft  swept  the  paper  exchanges  from  his  desk 
and  called  the  girls  to  that  throne. 

"A  long  time,"  he  boomed,  "since  you  perched  there ! 
You  used  to  favor  an  old  printer  guy ;  but  a  little  no- 
toriety and  getting  known  to  all  the  sailors  on  the 
Lakes — Lady  of  the  Lady  Island! " 

"I'm  going  to  lose  my  nice  title,  Mr.  Hartranft," 
Louise  smiled  graciously,  "but  I'm  to  have  a  fortune 
to  invest!  Anyway,  Jimmie  Brerton  is  going  to  take 
Captain  Brerton  down  to  look  it  over.  There  are 


THE  SHADOW  OF  CASTLE  DURAND     97 

some  artist  people  from  Detroit  want  to  rent  the  boat 
this  summer." 

Andre  underscored  this  with  a  gesture  of  ecstatic 
envy :  "Oh ! — wouldn't  I  like  to  be  on  it  with  them !" 

Stash  called  out:  "A  lot  of  artist  cockroaches  a' 
crawlin'  over  it — Mac  says !" 

"We  have  no  engagement  with  you ! — you're  busy," 
the  printer  boomed  back. 

ii 

A  thin  little  man  with  sharp  eyes  webbed  in  clammy 
dark  wrinkles  stepped  in  confidently  and  beckoned  to 
Stash! 

"Have  you  decided  to  come  in?"  he  demanded. 

Stash  appeared  a  little  confused.  Andre  shot  him  a 
what's-this-you've-been-up-to  look. 

"Fiddle  at  the  Savoy  three  nights  a  week  and  mats," 
Stash  explained  as  negligently  as  he  could. 

"Don't  you  ever  do  it!"  Louise  flashed — and  then 
crimsoned  with  confusion. 

"That's  all  right !"  the  little  man  smiled  approvingly 
at  both  the  girls.  There  was  an  effect  of  extravaganza 
in  his  gold-toothed  approval  that  Andre  resented  with 
contempt.  Turning  to  Stash,  she  said  swiftly: 

"Aren't  you  going  to  talk  to  Dad  about  it?" 

"Sure,"  said  Stash,  "I  been  intending  to,  but 

That  is,  I  hated  to — 'cause  I  wanted  to  study  with  him 
in  the  evening."  The  battery  of  critical  eyes  nettled 
him,  and  he  turned  suddenly  brusque:  "I'll  see  you 
some  other  time,  Eddie — busy  now." 

The  Savoy  man  waved  his  cigar  generously  at  all 
concerned,  and  swung  about  to  leave:  "Come  to  me 
any  time,  Plazarski.  If  your  try-out's  all  they  talk 


98       STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

about  you,  we'd  have  your  name  on  the  display  boards 
a  week  or  two.  You'd  like  that !" — he  nodded  to  the 
girls  cavalierly,  and  left. 

Stash  turned  abruptly  to  Louise :  "Why  don't  you 
want  me  to?" 

"Because  that's  where  Jack  Cardoul  played." 

Stash's  eyes  seemed  to  seek  a  way  back  into  dark, 
distressing  scenes ;  then  abruptly  he  threw  out  a  hand : 
"I  can't  bother  'bout  all  that!"  he  laughed  impa- 
tiently. 

Andre  slipped  down  from  the  desk :  "Playing  some 
Friday  night  stunts  for  cheap  spending  money!  It's 
just  ruinous! — isn't  it,  Mr.  Hartranft?"  she  ap- 
pealed naively.  She  tried  to  brush  aside  her  strange 
impatience,  and  added:  "There's  going  to  be  a  night 
sitting  on  the  Gorski  case  to-night.  Dad  thinks  it  will 
wind  it  up." 

"He  needn't  expect  much  from  Tragressor.  I'll  try 
to  get  over." 

"I  know  he'd  like  it !  Dad  is  fighting  alone,  and  he's 
been  working  so  hard  on  it.  ...  Good-bye,  Stash." 

"That's  the  reason  I  didn't  want  to  speak  to  him!" 
Stash  called  over  from  the  job  press,  "didn'  want  to 
worry  him  'bout  my  business !"  He  might  have  added 
that  he  wanted  to  earn  more  money  through  that  Savoy 
job,  so  that  he  could  pay  Fentree  for  keeping  him. 

"Good-bye!"  he  muttered.  He  felt  that  his  con- 
duct had  been  viewed  unjustly.  He  wasn't  crazy  about 
this  flashy  Eddie  Slason!  But  it  was  only  too  natural 
to  him  to  turn  to  the  theatre  to  make  a  little  money. 
Then  there  was  the  present  he  wanted  to  send  his 
mother; — he  had  pictured  a  ten-dollar  gold  piece 
wrapped  with  a  bottle  of  lilac  toilet  water;  Rynia  liked 
perfumes,  and  he  had  chuckled  to  think  of  her  surprise. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  CASTLE  DURAND     99 

But  thunder!  the  fine  morning  was  all  clouded  over 
now. 

in 

As  if  they  felt  that  they  had  been  too  severe  on  him, 
the  girls  showed  Stash  excess  of  favor  that  evening 
on  the  way  to  court.  Walking  on  either  side  of  him, 
they  reached  Wacaser  Street  crest  in  the  gloaming  of  a 
red  sunset.  Far  ahead  they  caught  a  silver  glint  of  the 
evening  river;  and  a  party  of  young  people  on  horse- 
back came  clattering  along :  Hugh  and  Gwen  Marantle, 
Max  Dunrin  and  Rose  Maddon. 

Stash's  eyes  were  drawn  to  Rose,  who  looked  like  a 
lady  in  a  play  of  ancient  days,  with  the  last  red  flush 
of  the  sunset  casting  a  strange  richness  about  her.  She 
smiled  and  called  to  the  girls;  but  whether  her  smile 
spoke  to  him  he  could  not  tell. 

"She  carries  her  head  so!"  Louise  commented  a 
trifle  grievously:  "money — I  s'pose!  Anyway  that 
Hugh  Marantle  is  just  a  stick  beside  Stash." 

"Ho!"  Stash  laughed,  "makin'  up  for  this  mornin* 
yet!" 

"Making  up  for  this  morning?"  flashed  Andre. 

"Yes,  sure !"  said  Stash  grimly,  "where  you  made 
me  look  silly  before  that  Eddie  fellow." 

"I  know  it  was  sort  of "  Andre  hesitated,  and 

laughed. 

"Well,  I  couldn't  help  thinking  of  that  old  Jack  Car- 
doul ! — and  feeling  some  bad  luck  would  come  to  Stash 
in  that  same  house !"  Louise  gave  him  one  of  those  pro- 
tective looks  that  glorified  the  purple  eyes  and  made 
one  forget  her  false  flings  of  discontent. 

Stash  felt  a  queer  little  pang  of  gratitude;  and  as 
they  mounted  the  broad  Court  House  steps  between 


100     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

fleur-de-lis  lamp  clusters  he  thought  of  the  first  time 
that  he  had  entered  the  building,  that  early  morning 
when  Fentree  had  taken  him  in  by  the  hand  and  no- 
tified the  sheriff's  office  of' Uncle  Jan's  and  Leo  Jas- 
trow's  deaths. 

The  halls  were  echoing  and  alive  to-night.  The  sud- 
den growth  of  the  town  had  swollen  court  business 
immensely.  On  the  curving  stairway  they  passed  a 
tall  dark  man  gravely  maintaining  two  companions  in 
portentous  laughter.  Andre  grew  tense,  as  though  they 
were  laughing  at  her  father,  and  whispered :  "That's 
Mr.  Marantle — Mr.  Maddon's  partner." 

They  passed  a  great  high  window  where  the  purple 
night  and  twinkling  city  lights  showed  Shabbona  and 
Wacaser  meeting  in  a  yellow  gore,  and  drifted  on  into 
the  court  room. 

IV 

The  Judge  came  out  of  his  chambers,  and  an  absent- 
minded  preparation  like  the  gambit  of  a  game  ensued. 
Then  all  at  once  Stash  realized  that  the  commanding 
figure  with  the  lean  iron-gray  head  was  Fentree  speak- 
ing; speaking  with  a  mastery  that  thrilled  Stash  and 
sent  icy  quivers  grizzling  along  his  scalp.  He  had 
never  realized  that  Mister  Fen  could  be  such  a  figure ! 
Or  what  it  would  be  to  fight  with  him!  It  came  on 
him  like  a  flash,  like  a  revelation.  A  pang  of  sick 
chagrin  at  his  failure  to  see  it  all  before  made  him 
clench  his  big  fists  as  if  he  would  crush  rocks  in  them. 
To  think  that  such  a  man  had  asked  him!  Ah,  if  he 
only  could  go  in  with  him !  .  .  . 

And  he  could!  Of  course  he  could!  He  felt  the 
nobility  of  Fentree's  fight  for  clumsy  old  Gorski.  A 
prospect  of  splendid  effort  unrolled  before  him.  He 


THE  SHADOW  OF  CASTLE  DURAND   101 

saw  himself  working  and  fighting  with  Fentree.  Saw 
Rynia  thrilled  and  happy !  It  would  please  her  best  of 
anything  he  could  do!  He  must  do  it  for  her,  he 
must  do  it  for  that  little  mother!  He  could  hardly 
hold  himself  in  his  seat ;  he  wanted  to  take  hold  now ! 
— to  begin  right  off! 

Then  came  recess,  and  he  understood  with  a  sinking 
of  the  heart  that  the  decision  would  be  some  time 
pending.  He  realized  suddenly  the  vast  labor  and  pa- 
tience involved.  His  thoughts  flicked  back  moodily  to 
Slason's  offer.  .  .  .  If  he  had  had  the  nerve  to  close 
with  him  he  might  have  been  in  the  Savoy  pit :  right 
now  in  its  rich  riot  of  sound  and  excitement;  instead 
of  wandering  up  and  down  the  broad  court  corridors 
in  a  turmoil  of  uncertainty  and  discontent.  Andre  and 
Louise  had  gone  home;  but  he  had  wanted  to  linger 
until  court  resumed.  But  this  talk,  and  waiting,  and 
echoing  laughter,  seemed  foolish  and  flat  to  him.  He 
decided  impatiently  to  go  out. 

Suddenly  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  he  saw  Hugh 
Marantle's  figure  rising,  and  beside  him  Rose  Maddon. 
She  had  scarcely  noticed  Stash  since  the  night  of  the 
dance;  and  he  was  passing  with  head  tossed  back 
when  she  murmured  something,  and  Marantle  plucked 
his  sleeve.  He  wheeled  about  and  pulled  off  his  cap. 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you!"  She  spoke  with  that  effect 
of  freshness  and  rosy  daring  that  must  either  be  ac- 
cepted or  rebuffed.  Smilingly  she  nodded  Hugh  along. 

"Did  you  think  I  was  angry  with  you? — you  hardly 
ever  look  my  way!"  she  began  with  a  baffling  gay 
smile. 

Stash  felt  at  once  that  she  was  bent  on  routing  him 
— in  revenge  for  his  audacious  dance  bet.  He  couldn't 
resist  the  impudent  temptation  to  bring  it  to  the  fore. 


102     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

"Of  course "  he  chuckled —  "it  was  awfully 

fresh  my  getting  that  dance  on  a  bet!" 

"Why  no-o!"  she  exclaimed,  laughing  in  bright 
surprise,  "of  course  I  knew  it  was  on  a  bet  all  the 
time.  I  could  just  see  Ced  Morf  and  Gus  Imbrie  and 
some  of  those  fellows  putting  you  up  to  it!" 

He  couldn't  help  it — Stash  threw  back  his  head  and 
laughed  at  her  daring.  There  was  such  provoking, 
shining  humor  in  her  blue  eyes,  under  those  extensive 
lashes. 

"Of  course,"  he  chuckled,  "it  wasn'  that  way  at  all. 
I  thought  of  it  first — nobody  dared  me  till 

"Till  they  saw  what  wonderful  courage  you  had!  Of 

course ! I  knew  how  it  was,  and  I  wanted  to  help 

you;  because — because  I  thought  your  nerve  deserved 
it !  ...  Besides,  it  was  fun  to  make  a  sensation.  We 
did,  didn't  we?" 

"Didn'  we !"  Stash's  eyes  shone  black  with  the  pleas- 
ure of  it. 

Rose  Maddon  bit  in  the  corner  of  her  lip,  and  made 
a  note  to  the  effect  that  it  was  fun  to  get  him  to  use 
words  ending  in  n't.  Her  chin  curved  up  expectantly, 
and  with  a  deeply  considering  look  she  began: 
"Wouldn't  you— wouldn't " 

"Wouldn'  I  what?"  Stash  urged  her  on  eagerly. 

She  was  compelled  to  bite  her  trembling  lip  again 
before  continuing:  "Wouldn't  you  think  it  was  sort 
of — sort  of  hasty  for  me  to  ask  you  to  bring  some 
girl  to  a  little  evening  dance  next  Saturday?  Because 
I  don't  really  know  you." 

"No,  sure  no !"  Stash  felt  impelled  to  put  her  doubts 
to  rest  so  completely  that  they  could  never  rouse  up 
again. 

"Then  you  would?  ...  I'm  asking  Gus  Imbrie  and 


THE  SHADOW  OF  CASTLE  DURAND   103 

Andre.  And  Ced  Morf  will  be  tickled  to  bring  Louise — 
unless  you  want  to.  That's  for  you  to  phone  me.  I 

really  came  here  to-night "  she  lowered  her  voice 

in  sudden  pleading — "half  because  I  thought  I'd  find 
you  here — because  I  was  afraid  you  thought  I  was 
angry — and  I've  been  wanting  to  settle  that.  ...  So 
.  .  .  but  here's  old  Hugh  .  .  .  good-bye!  It's  all 
right,  isn't  it?" 

Stash  could  only  blurt  "Sure!"  and  nod  eagerly.  As 
if  it  could  be  anything  but  all  right  to  have  a  littlest 
fairy  girl  asking  him — him!  His  heart  was  blockad- 
ing his  throat.  He  could  only  blurt  "Sure!"  and  whirl 
away  to  hide  the  madness  in  his  eyes.  Else  he  might 
have  tossed  her  up  to  the  ceiling — the  Princess  dar- 
ling! 


The  darkly  humorous  smile  of  Hugh  Marantle  stuck 
in  Stash's  mind.  And  as  he  sped  downstairs  he  suffered 
a  doubting  reaction  to  bedevil  him :  "  'Course  she  didn' 
come  up  here  to  see  me!  She  wants  her  old  dad  to 
win,  just  like  I  want  Mister  Fen;  an'  so  she  can  have 
beauty  dresses  like  that!  She  was  playing  him  around, 
that's  all.  But  he'd  show  her — he'd  lead  her  a  dance!" 

Then  there  were  clothes  to  darken  the  issue — if  he 

went  at  all And  somehow  she  had  twisted  him 

into  a  ridiculously  eager  committal.  He  must  look  as 
good  as  any  of  them.  If  only  he  had  signed  with 
Eddie  Slason  at  first! — without  any  fiddling  worry 
about  what  the  Fentrees  would  think,  or  about  having 
his  nights  to  put  in  at  Fentree's  office,  studying !  What 
did  he  want  of  studying!  Besides,  what  good  would 
that  do  F entree!  Fentree  hadn't  any  need  of  him!  And 
he  hadn't  promised  Rynia  to  study  with  Mist'  Fen! 


104     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

.  .  .  Submitting  himself  to  these  justifications  with 
half  a  heart,  while  the  other  half  shivered  to  the  luring 
melody  prefigured  in  Rose  Maddon,  he  swung  on  past 
the  half  demolished  ruin  of  the  old  Polish  Catholic 
Church  and  the  new  office  building  where  Fentree 
hoped  to  locate. 

VI 

At  home  he  found  Andre  and  Louise  in  a  state  of 
rapturous  excitement.  Andre  had  got  word  from 
Miss  Prinzep  about  her  drawings.  But  the  main  thing 
was,  that  she  was  one  of  that  party  of  artist  cock- 
roaches that  were  renting  the  Lady  Island  for  several 
weeks  to  paint  and  sketch  the  dune  and  marsh  country, 
and  Andre  and  Louise  were  to  go  over  in  Jim  Brer- 
ton's  car  to  visit  them. 

''That'll  be  great!"  Stash  agreed  rather  lamely.  It 
would  cut  right  across  the  Maddon  date.  He  took 
Andre  aside  to  explain. 

She  nodded  seriously:  "Of  course  Louise  would  be 
crazy  to  go.  But  she'll  be  asked  to  stay  over  on  the 
Lady  Island,  and  she'll  be  sort  of  lady  of  honor.  Why 
don't  you  ask  Marika!  She  must  get  lonesome  some- 
times. We  haven't  any  of  us  been  out  there  for  over 
two  weeks." 

Something  in  Stash's  heart  leapt  warmly  to  this  sug- 
gestion. So  early  the  next  morning  he  called  Varika's 
on  the  telephone,  and  commenced  to  make  excuses  for 
not  coming  out  to  see  her — in  order  to  break  his  de- 
lightful surprise  the  more  effectively.  But  Marika  had 
been  so  hurt  by  his  neglect  that  she  resented  his  eager- 
ness as  condescension,  and  refused  abruptly.  He  was 
so  taken  aback  that  he  could  utter  no  protest,  and  after 


THE  SHADOW  OF  CASTLE  DURAND   105 

waiting  for  her  to  say  something  more — spoke  a 
brusque  good-bye. 

Bewildered  and  angry,  he  told  Andre,  who  quickly 
adopted  the  alternative :  "I'll  tell  Louise,  so  that  she 
can  come  back  with  Jim  and  Captain  Brerton  if  she 
wants." 

The  dark  haired  younger  sister  was  ecstatic  over 
such  a  prospect.  "Oh — Stash."  She  gave  his  arm  a 
swing,  which  he  continued  round  and  round,  as  though 
Louise  had  succeeded — after  the  pitiful  failure  of  other 
inventors — in  establishing  perpetual  motion.  She  had 
to  catch  and  stop  it  for  him ;  and  he  started  off  down- 
town with  spring  in  his  step. 

VII 

During  the  day,  however,  he  brooded  over  Marika's 
refusal.  He  had  almost  decided  to  walk  out  to  Var- 
ika's  that  night;  but  if  he  could  set  things  right  with 
her — wouldn't  she  then  expect  him  to  ask  her  again  to 
go  to  Maddon's  with  him?  It  would  be  awkward  to 
explain,  and  Stash  hated  to  face  awkward  situations. 
He  preferred  to  cherish  the  fanciful  feeling  that  some- 
thing would  yet  draw  him  out  there. 

On  his  Shabbona  Street  ad  collecting  route  he  met 
Eddie  Slason  and  abruptly  decided  to  sign  up  for  the 
job,  which  tempted  him  now  more  strongly  than  ever. 

"Come  at  seven  to-night  and  sit  in  with  the  orches- 
tra; we'll  try  you  out  for  some  variety  stuff  some  time 
Sunday." 

And  so  Stash  decided  to  give  up  seeing  Marika  till 
after  the  dance  at  Maddon's  on  the  Hill.  His  elation 
in  closing  with  Slason  muffled  his  doubts  like  a  drum 
roll.  A  dashing  appearance  at  the  Maddons'  was  guar- 


106     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

anteed.  Louise  would  be  proud  to  have  him  look  like 
the  other  fellows.  Even  though  she  would  grieve  to 
know  him  hypothecating  his  expectations  at  the  Savoy. 
That  was  the  inconsistency  of  girls.  They  wanted  you 
not  to  do  so-and-so  when  you  just  had  to  do  it  in  order 
to  satisfy  their  demands  in  other  matters ! 

He  was  feeling  fairly  justified  now  in  all  his  deci- 
sions. There  was  just  a  dull  shadowing  fear  that  he 
had  played  the  traitor  to  his  big  resolution  of  Court 
night  .  .  .  and  a  little  to  Fentree's  expectations  .  .  . 
and  to  Rynia's  hopes  for  him. 


CHAPTER  VII 


It  was  a  windy,  wild  night  when  Louise  returned 
from  her  day  on  the  Lady  Island.  All  wrapped  up  in 
her  gray-pink  evening  coat,  she  boarded  the  street  car 
with  Stash,  feeling  a  certain  chagrin  in  taking  the 
dingy  common  "trolley"  to  Maddon's  gates.  Not  that 
this  could  very  much  dampen  her  elation.  And  in  the 
end  Stash  proved  himself  equal  to  effecting  a  proud 
and  disdainful  entrance  of  the  carriage  canopy. 

Perhaps  there  was  a  shade  too  much  of  dash  in  his 
manner ;  and  for  this  Louise  was  partly  to  blame,  since 
Stash  had  been  inspired  from  the  moment  he  saw  her 
on  the  Fentree  stairs  with  the  belief  that  he  was  taking 
the  very  prettiest  girl  of  the  evening. 

He  had  no  difficulty  in  getting  her  program  scored 
off.  He  signed  his  own  slashing  5.  P.  twice  on  Rose 
Maddon's  card,  against  her  protest.  But  in  her  danc- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  CASTLE  DURAND   107 

ing  cornflower  eyes  he  thought  he  saw  a  delight  in 
his  charge,  his  esprit. 

There  was  nothing  to  slur  the  splendor  of  the  eve- 
ning, unless  it  was  those  untimely  thoughts  of  Marika. 
.  .  .  Poor  li'l  Rika — what  was  twisting  her!  A  queer 
thing — he  often  pictured  her  as  crying  when  he  had 
really  left  her  smiling! 

Yet  none  of  this  disturbed  him  greatly  as  he  stood 
out  by  the  stone  balustrade,  talking  and  laughing  with 
Dunrin  and  Hugh  Marantle.  .  .  .  Hugh  had  taken 
three  dances  with  Louise.  .  .  .  And  when — on  the  way 
home  through  the  windy  dark — Louise  told  him  that  it 
had  all  turned  out  more  beautifully  than  she  had  ex- 
pected, Stash  was  fully  satisfied  with  himself  and 
Louise  and  the  exhilarating  wildness  of  the  night.  Be- 
low them  Wacaser  Street  drooped  away  with  drip- 
ping purplish  jewels  in  place  of  arc  lamps.  Above 
them  the  maples  softly  roared  or  towered  into  clashing 
sound. 

"Hear  it!"  Louise  exclaimed,  "way  up  in  the  pilot 
houses  of  them!"  She  lingered  on  the  porch  to  look 
back. 

Stash  laughed,  patted  her  shoulder,  and  swung  off 
up  to  his  room. 

ii 

From  his  room,  which  was  on  the  alley  side  of  the 
house,  Stash  heard  an  owl.  It  came  so  dismal  and  loud 
that  he  leaned  out  of  the  half  open  window  to  listen.  He 
had  heard  such  wild,  old  Bohemian  wives'  tales  about 
the  hooting  of  owls  round  certain  houses  and  the  death 
and  trouble  that  followed  that  the  fear  of  the  sound 
was  ingrained  in  him. 

It  came  now  so  close  beneath  his  head  that  it  startled 


108     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

him.  He  made  a  low  gruff  noise  to  frighten  it  away, 
when  suddenly  someone  spoke:  "You,  Stash-a-boy?" 
Somehow  he  knew  at  once  that  it  must  be  Varsh ;  mut- 
tered "wait  a  minute"  and  slipping  through  the  hall  out 
onto  the  gallery,  let  himself  down  a  post  into  the  alley. 

Everything  was  silent  except  for  the  crunching  of 
his  feet  and  the  gurgle  of  a  gutter  runnel.  The  black 
mist  whiffed  against  his  hot  forehead.  Backed  against 
the  syringa  bush  was  a  dark  figure  in  a  peaked  hat. 
Its  silence  gave  Stash  a  qualm  of  alarm.  Perhaps  it 
wasn't  Varsh  after  all.  This  alley  wasn't  a  nice  place 
to  meet  .  .  .  "That  you,  Varsh?" 

"Sure  ...  I  didn'  know  it  was  you,  Stash-a-boy! 
.  .  .  You  look  so  big  dere  comin'  down." 

He  seemed  ill  at  ease;  and  Stash  laughed  a  little 
nervously,  then  turned  brusque:  "Why  didn'  you  let 
me  know  you  was  round,  before?" 

"I  just  got  in  last  night  oin  dat  Mon'ak  Route — ridin' 
freights  to  get  here — my  God,  boy,  I  don'  want  to 
bother  you,  get  back!  I  just  was  a  hangin'  round  to 
see  you  in  de  mornin' — an'  den  I  see  your  head  up  dere 
in  dat  win'ow."  His  voice  sounded  bleak  and  tired. 
Something  told  Stash  that  he  ought  to  say :  "Come  on 
up  an'  talk  a  while,  an'  I'll  fix  you  up  for  the  night." 

Various  ways  of  presenting  such  an  offer  started  up 
in  his  mind;  but  something  balked  his  usual  impetu- 
osity. Something  dull,  dispiriting  and  ugly  had  come 
with  the  tragic  hooting  of  that  owl  to  poison  the  glam- 
our of  the  evening.  He  resented  it  fiercely.  This  old 
rough  fellow  had  dragged  him  down  from  those  heights 
of  passionate  glory  he  had  always  longed  for — and  was 
beginning  to  attain! 

"Well "  he  paused  suggestively. 

"Well,  boy!"  Varsh  struck  a  bolder  tone  as  if  to 


THE  SHADOW  OF  CASTLE  DURAND    109 

bolster  his  shuffling  unwelcome  position  before  this  lit- 
tle Stash — grown  all  big  and  making  so  straight  a 
figure  in  the  sifting  mist  and  down  drifting  light.  "I 
been  all  over — lots  o'  places — an'  I  could  tell  you  about 
it — but  dis  am'  no  time,  I  see.  So  all  I  wanto  know  is 
— I  heard  dat  ol'  Karsh  out  huntin'  me,  want  me  back. 
And  if  he  wants  me  now  do  you  know,  boy?" 

So  much  in  the  voice  and  the  manner  was  an  echo 
of  his  own  that  it  served  to  stress  Stash's  disgust  with 
the  situation.  But  at  the  same  time  a  pang  for  Varsh's 
bleakness  wrangled  lonesomely  in  the  backland  of  his 
mind;  and  an  impulse  made  him  thrust  out  his  hand 
and  grip  Varsh's  as  he  said:  "Old  Karsh!  .  .  .  He 
said  you  could  call  him  any  damn  name  you  want  to,  if 
you'd  just  come  back!  .  .  .  He's  off  now,  hunting — • 
way  South " 

"That's  where  I  been,"  said  Varsh  hoarsely,  "an'  I 
heard  in  a  saloon  at  Munc' — so  I'm  gettin'  me  back." 

He  swung  out — hesitated  a  moment — then,  as  Stash 
said  nothing,  lunged  out  into  the  wind  and  black  mist. 
There  had  been  in  his  last  words  a  hoarseness,  it  seemed 
to  Stash,  as  of  choked  back  tears — or  was  it  merely 
some  futile  sort  of  anger?  He  could  not  believe  his 
first  impression  or  that  an  appeal  had  been  made  to  him 
— because  Varsh  seemed  to  him  a  grown  man,  bigger 
and  older  than  he. 

By  aid  of  the  mock  orange  bush  he  climbed  back  to 
the  upper  gallery,  and  tried  to  softly  close  the  French 
door  of  the  hall  against  the  gust  of  the  wind,  which 
roared  and  sighed  like  the  dreary  rumors  of  his  old 
marsh  country  memories 


110     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

CHAPTER  VIII 


The  morning  cleared  bright  and  glistening,  and 
Stash  struck  out  across  the  back  fields  for  the  Koban 
Lake  road.  He  crossed  the  railroad  bridge,  which  he 
had  once  on  a  time  made  a  virtue  of  avoiding  because 
he  had  two  little  girls  with  him.  He  laughed  to  him- 
self. A  stubby  Slovak  track-walker  carrying  a  spec- 
tral lantern  glanced  after  the  big  swinging  boy  with 
the  crazy  smile  on  his  face. 

The  first  brazen  glimmer  of  Koban  Lake  flicked  his 
eye.  In  a  hedge  of  Koban  woods  a  cat  bird  called, 
breaking  the  stillness  with  a  thin  spectral  gleam  of 
sound,  as  if — like  the  track-walker's  lantern — it  hardly 
knew  in  its  cool  dark  covert  that  morning  was  rising 

high- 
Something  broke  with  a  rush  through  Stash's  heart 
and  he  found  himself  whistling  merry,  wheedling  lit- 
tle songs  from  "The  Glittering  Road"  and  "Till  To- 
morrow Morning."  Transported  from  the  freshness 
of  the  July  country  morning,  he  smelt  the  mirky  fra- 
grance of  the  old  Tunnel  theatre,  and  heard  sounds  and 
words  and  voices  that  fell  into  semi-patterns  like  the 
colored  flecks  of  a  kaleidoscope. 

He  heard  Cardoul's  voice  quoting  from  "The  Mika- 
do"— "She  has  an  elbow  you'd  go  miles  to  see!"  In  a 
flash  he  saw  an  elbow  like  Rose  Maddon's,  with  a 
dimple  that  came  and  went  as  you  saw  it  in  backward 
view.  In  another  flash  he  heard  her  speak :  "You  say 
my  elbow  winked  at  you? — that's  'cause  you  took  a 
backward  view !" 


THE  SHADOW  OF  CASTLE  DURAND   111 

And  now  he  transferred  those  fancied  words  to 
Rudolphine  Mar  of  the  Savoy.  It  might  fit  into  their 
specialty  for  next  Saturday  afternoon.  ...  A  few 
snappy  lines  to  be  scored  up  with  the  musical  setting 
by  old  Scarbro.  Scarbro,  the  old  leader,  could  take 
a  few  tags  from  old  songs  and  write  a  harmony  over- 
night to  fit  any  song  poem  you  could  hand  him.  Great 
stuff!  Stash  felt  it  in  himself  to  do  this  some  day. 

But  now  to  turn  his  inward  ear  to  Rudolphine  Mar, 
and  try  to  hear  her  saucy  little  voice  ...  it  would  get 
tangled  up  with  Rose's.  Hold  on ! — another  idea !  He 
would  first  snap  off  the  patter  on  his  violin,  making  it 
say  as  plainly  as  he  could :  "I  say  that  dimple  in  your 
elbow  winked  at  me !" 

Then  Rudolphine's  childish  silver  voice :  "The  dim- 
ple in  my  elbow  winked  at  you? — that's  'cause  you  took 
a  backward  view!  I  think  it  just  was  laughin'  up  its 
sleeve — to  see  what  it  can  make  some  chaps  believe!" 
There! — a  dandy  parlando  bit  for  her.  He'd  trust  to 
a  mood  of  royal  madness  to  shape  these  fragments  into 
a  pattern. 

Marika  could  help  him !  He'd  ask  her :  "Say,  Rik, 
can  you  give  me  a  hand  with  my  Savoy  combination  ?rt 
And  he  could  see  her  black  and  gold  flecked  eyes  drop 
their  sombre  questioning  and  take  fire  with  eagerness 
to  help.  He  could  so  easily  picture  himself  repairing 
his  injustice  to  Rika  and  Varsh  that  he  felt  it  already 
accomplished.  It  was  part  of  his  stagey  facility  for 
visioning  splendid  exploits. 

II 

Such  pictures  were  tumbling  through  his  fiery  mind 
when  Varika  met  him  with  paper  in  hand,  talking  ex- 


112     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

citedly  of  the  great  Vladika  who  had  just  come  over 
from  Bohemia  to  refire  them  here  in  America  with 
the  dream  of  making  their  romantic  homeland  the 
stronghold  of  Slavic  liberty — Swoboda!  *  Always  their 
swoboda!  As  for  himself,  Stash  would  like  to  forget 
it;  and  learn  where  Rika  was.  So  that  he  could  tell 
her  his  Savoy  scheme,  which  Varika's  chatter  was  sim- 
ply jostling  out  of  his  mind !  .  .  . 

"Let's  see!"  he  thought  to  himself  grimly,  "I  think 
it  just  was  laughin'  up  its  sleeve — darn  it!  the  voice 
would  turn  into  Rose  Maddon's"  ...  So  his  thoughts 
ran  on  while  he  smiled  blankly  in  Varika's  face. 

"Dat's  what's  de  matter!"  shouted  the  little  Czech, 
tfdat  we  have  in  dis  country  too  much  comfort.  .  .  . 
You  forget  too,  you  Polish  .  .  ." 

"Le'  me  see !"  thought  Stash,  "I  come  in  as  a  press 
agent.  .  .  ." 

"An'  sometime  we  was  together  in  one  great  coun- 
try, speak  de  same  language — you  Polish  an'  us.  Us 
Czechs  .  .  ." 

"When  she  says,"  Stash  thought  on  fiercely,  facing 
the  little  man  squarely,  determinedly,  "she'd  like  to  hear 
my  fiddle — /  say  .  .  ." 

"Us  Czechs  has  de  sounder  heads.  We  don't  go  crazy 
about  swoboda!  ..." 

"Yes  you  don't!"  thought  Stash  in  a  sarcastic  flirt 
of  temporary  attention,  and  resumed  his  own  schem- 
ing. .  .  . 

"De  Czechs  lights  up  like  lanterns,"  Varika  ran  on, 
"but  de  Polish  like  a  torch.  Dat  Father  Jan,  he  thinks 
he  give  up  de  old  dreams  about  swoboda,  but  he's  still 
a-burnin'  out  inside.  Dat's  such  a  pitiful  condition  dat 
only  Marika  can  pull  dat  uncle  priest  out  of  his  spells. 
1  Swoboda  =  Liberty. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  CASTLE  DURAND   113 

I  say — Give  up  all  dat  priest's  tomf oolishness ! " 

"You  don't  say  dat  to  him!" — a  great  voice  shouted 
so  suddenly  that  Varika  sprang  about  as  if  struck  with 
a  baseball  club.  It  was  one  of  the  Shabbata  boys  to  be 
sure :  they  were  always  passing  by  and  joining  right  in 
your  talk,  without  even  saying  "By  God,  dat's  right !" 
for  politeness. 

"Well,  I  don't  say  it  to  him  of  course,  but  I  tell 
Marika  dat,  when  she  goes  to  play  for  him." 

Shabbata  nodded :    "Well,  dat's  safe !" 

Varika  ignored  this  fling.  "I  been  tellin'  Stash  about 
dis  in  Hartranft's  paper — about  Vladika  comin' 
over  .  .  ." 

"Yes !"  boomed  Stash,  "and  I  set  it  all  up  in  Hart- 
ranft's shop,  so  I  know  it  by  letters!  .  .  .  What  I'm 
waitin'  for  is  to  hear  where  Rika  is!"  The  laughing 
twinkle  in  his  eye  set  off  Shabbata  in  a  roar.  Varika 
started  back! — as  if  he  had  been  clubbed  on  the  other 
ear!  Then  joined  the  roar  at  his  expense. 

Stash  swung  away  laughing  through  the  citron  smell- 
ing lobby ;  and  out  on  the  pavilion  deck  found  Marika. 
They  wound  on  down  the  low  and  sand-bridged  river 
together. 

m 

"You  know,"  said  Stash,  "what  gave  me  the  idea 
about  the  fiddle  talkin'  patter?  A  fellow  at  the  Majes- 
tic in  Detroit  was  showin'  how  to  do  mouth  reading. 
It  was  s'prising !  But  I  thought — 'Gee !  I  can  make  my 
fiddle  say  things  as  plain  as  that !'  Ever  see  it  done  ? — 
I  mean  mouth  reading?" 

Marika  shook  her  head,  smiling  up  at  him  with  al- 
most the  shine  of  tears  in  her  eyes  for  the  happiness 


114     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

of  having  him  ignore  the  wrong  she  had  done  him! — 
refusing  last  night's  pleasure. 

"Well,"  said  Stash,  "I'll  try  you  on  an  easy  one!"— 
and  mouthed  fiercely  at  her. 

"I — I  guess  you  mean — 'You  lie !' ' 

"That's  right !"  mouthed  Stash. 

"That's  right,"  guessed  Marika. 

"Now "  said  Stash  aloud — "we'll  try  a  longer 

one.  .  .  ." 

A  flush  stole  up  over  the  childish  curve  of  her  cheek. 
It  should  have  made  Stash  ashamed  of  the  rascally 
shining  of  his  eyes. 

"You "  began  Marika,  "you " 

"Got  to  say  it  right  out!"  said  Stash. 

"I  love  you"  said  Marika,  trying  to  match  his  laugh, 
but  faltering,  while  the  pink  deepened  in  her  cheeks. 

"That's  right,"  Stash  chuckled,  "ho— ho!  You 
made  such  a  fuss  over  it!  Why,  in  rehearsals  you'll 
hear  'em  say — 'Put  more  snap  in  that  love  stuff!'  It 
don'  mean  anything!" 

"Yes,  sure,"  said  Marika,  dropping  her  head,  "you're 
used  to  it.  But — "  she  brought  her  eyes  to  his  and 
flashed  them  a  little  angrily — "you  did  it  just  like  lay- 
ing a  trap  for  me !" 

"I  never  meant  it,"  Stash  swore;  "it  just  came  to 
me  all  of  a  sudden.  An'  I  couldn'  help  grinning,  Rik, 
when  you  waited  and  sputtered!  .  .  ." 

"Just  like  a  trap !"  Marika  repeated,  turning  her  face 
aside  with  a  half  laugh,  half  sob.  She  was  miserably 
angry  with  him,  and  yet  wanted  to  laugh  and  cry  her 
thankfulness  to  him  for  coming  to  her  so  gay.  And 
didn't  she  just  long  to  tell  him  how  awful  she  had  felt 
during  these  last  days?  .  .  .  And  still  ...  he  took 


THE  SHADOW  OF  CASTLE  DURAND    115 

such  advantage  of  her  weakness  .  .  .  and  she  was 
angry! 

Stash  caught  the  shine  of  her  eyes,  saw  the  quiver  in 
her  throat ;  and  went  on  a  way  in  silence.  In  the  still 
shining  of  the  morning  they  came  to  an  old  harvest 
apple  tree.  Fallen  green  globules  lay  in  the  rain-beaded 
grass. 

"  'Member  how  we  used  to  throw  these  on  sticks?" 
said  Stash.  He  picked  up  a  small  one  and  fitted  it  to 
the  knuckles  of  his  big  hand :  "I  s'pose  I  could  throw 
this  as  far  now  without  a  stick.  Want  to  watch  it 
curve,  Rik?" 

Of  course  she  exclaimed  excitedly,  admiringly. 
"Throw  this  one  straight  up,  so  that  I  can  see  it  get 
lost  in  the  sky,"  she  begged  for  the  next  one. 

With  a  tremendous  wrench  of  the  shoulders  Stash 
set  the  green  globe  free.  She  watched  its  glossy  sur- 
face catch  the  blue  light  and  melt  from  vision,  like  a 
green  soapbubble  crackling  in  a  blue  pool. 

Marika  gathered  more.  "Throw  these !"  she  laughed 
gaily.  It  was  just  like  they  had  been  as  little  things. 
Stash  was  tumultuously  happy  to  be  just  like  kids  again 
with  Rika,  and  even  inclined  to  brag  as  in  the  old  days 
— when  he  didn't  know  any  better. 

"Lee  Luders  wanted  me  to  make  the  Cadillacs  this 
summer.  We  used  to  fizz  'em  over  on  the  back  lots. 
But  when  I  got  to  puttin'  on  the  break  stuff  he  backed 
away — just  like  a  Sheenie,  I  told  him.  But  never  mind, 
he  said,  he'd  get  a  cage.  He  said  a  Sheenie's  head  was 
thinner  by  inches  than  a  Polak's  and  needed  protection. 
Just  a  joke.  But  maybe  it  is.  Your  pop  said  the  Polaks 
don't  have  so  good  heads  as  the  Czechs.  He's  all  ex- 
cited about  swoboda  again.  I  have  to  laugh !" 

Marika  flashed  up :    "I  don't  see  it's  to  laugh  about ! 


116     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

I'm  sad  to  see  him  when  he  feels  all  his  dreams  are 
gone.  I  like  to  see  him  tear  around  talking  about  old 
Bohemia  and  swoboda,  because  isn't  it  fine  to  live  for 
that?  Sometimes  I  see  him  get  melancholy  and  look 
at  the  old  blue  lavitza  bench,  and  he  smokes  and  thinks 
and  thinks — and  that's  not  good.  That's  like  Uncle 
John,  and  I  couldn't  stand  that." 

"Well,  you  can't  bother  'bout  all  that,  or  it  makes 
you  sick.  I  told  you  all  that  stuff  bothers  me  too — 
like  about  Varsh.  But  I  just  can'  bother  'bout  it  all 
the  time !" 

"But  you  bothered  'bout  me,  Stash !"  Marika's  voice 
trembled  and  her  eyes  were  shining.  "You  came  and 
never  said  a  word  about  last  night ! — and  all  just  like  I 
hadn't  acted  mean — so  mean ! — just  as  if — "  she  threw 
out  her  arms — "it  never  was!" 

To  her  he  looked  like  the  proud  young  hawk,  eyes 
shining,  but  still  puzzled  a  bit  just  how  to  receive  her. 

"And  I've  been  so  sick  ever  since  the  minute  after  I 
put  up  the  phone,"  she  mourned  softly. 

"But  it's  all  right  now !"  declared  Stash,  triumphant, 
and  he  began  to  whistle  thrillingly. 

"What's  that  you're  whistling?" 

"  'Back  to  the  Boulevards!' " 

"You  know,  Stash !"  she  caught  his  arm  impulsively, 
"that's  just  it!  Back  to  the  Boulevards — you'll  be 
going!  To  that  Detroit!  To  that  excitement!  And 
you'll  leave  me — and  all  of  us !  Because  I  knew — be- 
cause I  felt  it ! — that's  why  I  acted  that  way ! — because 
you  didn't  come  to  see  us — and  I  thought — let  It  end 
now!" 

"I  know,  Rik — there's  so  much  exciting  to  do !  And 
I  feel  about  you  and  Varsh  an'  all  of  this,  here,  like  I 
do  about  a  piano.  Something  way  back  in  the  old 


THE  SHADOW  OF  CASTLE  DURAND    117 

hotel  about  a  piano  happened  that  makes  me  feel  queer, 
right  up  against  one.  To  keep  from  feeling  sick  I  just 
bang  into  it — an'  into  excitement.  And  ten  to  one  the 
thing  I'm  lovin'  hardest  makes  me  sickest.  But  I  can' 
be  bothered "  He  rubbed  his  hand  across  his  fore- 
head— "I  guess  my  old  thick  head,  like  Lee  Luders  says, 
can'  stand  too  much  thinkin' !  You'll  come  an'  see 
me  in  my  skit  at  the  Savoy,  won't  you?  And  I'll  make 
my  lady  fiddle  talk  over  their  heads  to  you,  Rika!" 

"Oh,  that  will  be  fun,  Stash!" 

"What  will  I  say?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  something  like  this — "  and  hummed — "Oh, 
What  Full  Delight!" 

"That's  too  easy!"  chuckled  Stash.  "I'll  say  on  that 
old  fid — "  and  mouthed — "I  love  you!" — Adding: 
"But  you'll  know  it'll  mean  nothing,  just  nothing  in 
the  world." 

Then  as  she  pretended  to  look  away  angrily,  he  ex- 
claimed :  "There's  your  pop  on  the  lavitza  now — let's 
do  a  little  sketch  to  make  him  forget  swobodie !" 

He  took  her  arm,  and  they  trotted  out  under  the 
twinkling  alders  on  the  rain-packed  ground.  Varika 
was  smoking  at  ease  on  the  red  and  blue  curlicued 
bench. 

"We'll  do  a  squeegee,"  whispered  Stash ;  "throw  up 
one  foot  in  the  air,  and  squeegee  the  other,  so  we 
travel  sideways  together." 

And  so  they  moved  out  uncannily  in  front  of  Va- 
rika's  bench.  What  an  astonishment  on  his  face !  He 
caught  Marika  as  she  stumbled,  and  drew  her  tight  to 
him,  under  the  curve  of  his  big  porcelain  pipe  with  the 
painted  hunting  scene  on  its  bowl. 


118     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 


IV 


Stash  looked  on  gaily,  springing  his  weight  from  one 
foot  to  the  other,  and  wondering  why  he  could  ever 
stay  away  from  so  happy  a  place. 

Marika  looked  up  at  the  roof  of  leaves :  "See  Tasich's 
blue  smoke  in  the  green,  like  your  green  apple  would, 
Stash,  in  the  blue." 

And  Stash  noted — what  she  could  not  see — that  un- 
der her  tilted-up  chin  was  a  sheen  of  blue  in  white, 
where  the  delicate  veins  throbbed. 

He  winked  at  her:  "It'll  mean  just  nothin',  Rik, 
just  nothin'  in  the  world."  And  he  knew  that  nothing, 
nothing  in  the  world,  could  ever  be  so  happy  for  him  as 
just  these  Sunday  morning  moments  under  the  big 
alders,  in  the  bluish  shade. 

"What  you  mean?"  Varika  demanded. 

"Just  a  secret,  Tasich!"  Marika  whipped  his  big 
brown  hand  with  her  little  one. 

"Oh — go  on  wid  your  secrets!  When  you  go 
tasich'n  me  you're  just  putting  honey  on  oil — dat's  all !" 

The  road  for  a  short  distance  up  was  a  tunnel  of 
shade,  and  echoing  voices  sounded  there  for  a  few 
moments  before  Varsh  and  Jennika  came  into  view, 
with  Karshenko's  big  gipsy  king  figure  swinging  b1- 
side  them. 

They  were  laughing  together,  Jennika's  face  flushed 
with  amusement  and  angry  expostulation  with  the 
swaggering  blacksmith.  Varsh  looked  like  a  new  fel- 
low, though  he  compared  somehow  ill  with  Stash's 
clean-cut  figure.  This  clouded  Jennika's  happiness. 
Her  humid  eyes  flashed  from  Varsh  to  Stash  and  Ma- 

1  Tasich  =  Daddy. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  CASTLE  DURAND    119 

rika.  Marika  caught  the  unease  like  a  breath  of  sad- 
dening, clashing  music.  She  saw  that  Stash  made  Jen- 
nika  angry  and  disappointed  with  Varsh. 

The  two  big  boys — so  much  alike  in  some  ways — 
were  holding  each  other's  hands,  and  looked  pleased 
but  puzzled  what  to  do  next.  Suddenly  Varsh  whis- 
pered in  Stash's  ear:  "You  get  dat  Karsh  to  go  wid 
you  down  to  de  lake — w'en  you  go,  see !" 

"All  right — all  right!"  shouted  Karshenko,  as  if  he 
had  heard  every  word,  and  throwing  out  his  elbows, 
pranced  off  with  high  mocking  steps.  He  grinned  back 
in  enjoyment  of  their  confusion,  his  white  teeth  gleam- 
ing under  his  black  mustache. 

The  day  passed  off  more  happily  than  Stash  had 
dreamed  it  could.  When  he  had  finished  the  evening 
row  on  the  lake,  he  called  back  gaily :  "Remember  what 
I'll  say  to  you  at  the  Savoy!" 

Marika  remembered.  She  remembered  his  other 
words :  "What  I'm  lovin'  hardest  makes  me  sickest !" 
They  would  run  in  her  head  till  far  into  the  night. 


BOOK  FOUR:  THE  GIFT  THAT  IS 
GREATEST  OF  ALL 

CHAPTER  I 


Before  the  gilded  kiosk  of  the  Savoy,  Rose  Maddon 
slipped  from  her  car,  and  paused  with  the  Fentree  girls 
and  Marika  before  the  display  board : 

STAN  PLAZARSKI. 

"I  didn't  know  he  had  that  picture!"  Louise  mur- 
mured. 

The  ruthless  young  smile  and  high  arched  head  pre- 
sented Stash  all  right;  but  he  loomed  prodigious  and 
foreign  from  the  unnatural  retouching  of  the  picture. 

"'The  Violin  That  Talks  Patter"' — Rose's  eyes 
sparkled,  her  laugh  echoed  faintly  in  the  rococo  foyer. 
Hers  had  been  such  a  royal  little  way  of  welcoming 
Marika  into  the  party :  simply  catching  both  her  hands, 
to  toss  them  loose  in  friendly  gaiety.  For  Rose  had 
never  met  the  Varika  girls,  and  it  had  been  embarras- 
sing for  Andre  to  ask  a  place  for  Marika. 

Beyond  the  balcony's  purple  hanging  a  twilight  of 
dying  melody  was  twinkling  out,  to  the  triangles' 
stricken  stars. 

"There  he  is,"  said  Rose,  "lolling  in  the  pit  with  the 
orchestra."  Her  tone  made  Stash's  skit  seem  trifling 
and  miles  away. 

121 


122     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

Yet  with  the  lumbering  down  of  the  curtain  the 
orchestra  suddenly  raced  into  the  specialty  number — 
"But  She  Doesn't  Like  to  Talk  About  Herself."  The 
Exits  quavered  redly  and  the  bull's-eye  shed  a  blue- 
green  sea  light  from  the  domed  roof. 

Abruptly — a  violin  off-stage  dashed  into  a  passion- 
ate frivolity.  And  there  with  a  rush  came  a  challeng- 
ing mad  Stash.  His  eyes  flashed  in  their  darkened 
circles  as  he  threw  his  violin  to  his  shoulder  and  struck 
off:  "Play  that  again!" 

"Play  it  again?"  laughed  the  leader,  "sure  thing!" 

Now  Rudolphine  thrust  out,  at  her  trudging  little 
scuffle.  And  Stash  swung  out  to  meet  her,  just  as  he 
had  planned  that  morning  Varika  shouted  swoboda  in 
his  ears.  She  .prof  essed  a  frightful  reluctance  to  say 
a  word  about  herself;  then  followed  with  the  most 
astounding  confidences. 

He  introduced  his  violin  as  an  actress  and  a  lady! 
And  some  very  saucy  things  that  lady  said !  The  which 
Miss  Mar  guessed  with  surprising  perspicacity. 

Finally  she  asked  him  to  play  that  song  about  her- 
self. So  Stash  whipped  up  the  confection  that  Scarbro 
and  he  had  contrived ;  while  Rudolphine  adopted  a  sil- 
very wry  little  voice : 

"She  will  talk  about  bananas, 

Wooden  shoe  strings  and  pajamas; — 
But  she  doesn't  like  to 
Talk  about  herself!—" 

Somehow  the  cheapness  of  it  merged  in  its  scuffling 
dash ;  and  its  sharp  melody  corners  were  turned  at  such 
a  rush  by  the  turbulent  Stash  that  he  seemed  to  burst 
upon  the  house  in  full  charge,  like  a  squadron  of  dra- 
goons. He  whipped  the  orchestra  into  finale  with  a 
snap  of  his  bow;  while  he  and  Mar  squeegeed  across 


THE  GIFT  THAT  IS  GREATEST  OF  ALL    123 

the  stage,  one  foot  each  in  air,  still  singing — still  play- 
ing. 

A  crash  of  applause  seemed  to  drive  them  into  the 
wings.  His  absurdly  high  spirits  had  won  for  Stash. 

Marika's  heart  was  twisting  with  disappointment. 
He  had  forgotten  his  promised  message.  And  that  was 
the  way  with  the  whole  sweep  of  this  business — it 
would  swerve  him  away  from  her.  But  there ! — he  was 
back,  looking  straight  at  her !  With  a  final  flourish  of 
his  bow  and  a  mutter  of  his  carmined  lips — he  was 
gone.  ...  '7  love  you!" 

"I  greet  you!"  murmured  Rose  Maddon,  interpret- 
ing his  message.  But  the  message — but  the  greeting 
— was  for  Marika. 

ii 

On  the  stairway  that  evening  Andre  showed  Stash 
her  lake  sketches  and  told  him  of  Rose  Maddon's  ex- 
citing plan  for  taking  them  over  to  the  Lady  Island  in 
her  car.  Stash  thought  it  would  be  great.  No,  he 
couldn't  go — that  was  the  day  of  the  Sokol x  Picnic  at 
Cutler's  Beach. 

"Maybe  we  could  take  you,"  Andre  suggested. 

"No,  I'm  going  up  with  the  Sokol.  I  belong  to  Shab- 
bona  lodge." 

"I  thought  from  the  way  you  leaned  over  Rose  Mad- 
don after  matinee  that  you'd  be  crazy  to  go  in  her  car." 

"Oh,  I  donno!"  said  Stash,  his  eyes  crinkling  pro- 
vokingly;  "the  Sokols  march  to  the  train  with  band 
music !  Then  in  the  afternoon  a  big  ball  game  with  a 
Chicago  Sokol  that  comes  over  on  a  big  excursion 
steamer.  An'  say! — I  got  a  new  scheme  for  if  I  play! 
Only  this — I  got  to  thinking  how  a  fellow  comes 
1  Sokol  =  Falcon. 


124     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

ninety-nine  per  cent  to  making  a  grand  stand  play,  an' 
never  knows  he  might  have  zipped  over  if  he'd  just 
squeezed  out  a  spurt  more!  So  I'm  goin'  to  squeeze 
out  that  spurt,  see!" 

"That  doesn't  sound  especially  new  to  me;  and  do 
you  know,  Stash,  you  use  the  bummest  language  some- 
times !" 

He  lifted  his  jagged  profile  away  from  her. 

"Stash!  .  .  ."  She  touched  his  shoulder— "You 
were  so  plum  enthusiastic  about  your  scheme — after 
you'd  dusted  mine  off!" 

She  saw  then  a  laughing  play  in  the  side  of  his  face, 
and  he  turned  his  shining  eyes:  "Well  I  just  been  a 
fool!"  And  he  stretched  out  his  big  hard  hand  for 
hers. 

m 

The  "4th"  gave  Rose  Maddon's  party  a  dazzling  blue 
sky  for  the  duneland  trip.  Hugh  Marantle,  who  drove, 
determined  to  run  along  the  shore  as  far  as  the  ship  if 
possible.  When  they  rounded  the  headland  that  gave 
on  the  stranded  boat,  Rose  raised  a  little  cry  of  delight. 

A  new  flag  sputtered  at  the  truck,  and  red  funnels 
raked  the  stainless  blue.  With  each  lazy  swell  that  rus- 
tled in  there  showered  a  spray  of  water,  and  the  girls' 
hair  still  sparkled  with  iridescent  beads  as  they  mount- 
ed the  companion  ladder. 

Among  the  new  artist  recruits,  a  lazy  viking  fellow 
called  "Flamingo"  seemed  to  Andre  the  most  fascinat- 
ing. 

"Let  Flamingo  show  you  the  boat,"  Miss  Prinzep 
advised;  "he's  been  a  coal-slicer,  and  knows  it  topside 
and  below."  She  turned  to  Andre:  "Why  couldn't 
Stash  come?" 


THE  GIFT  THAT  IS  GREATEST  OF  ALL    125 

"Oh,  he's  so  full  of  business!"  Andre  replied.  "His 
latest  is  getting  subscriptions  to  the  Tribune  to  get 
votes  for  Rika  Varika.  She  wins  a  fortune  or  an  auto- 
mobile— or  something.  He  names  her  his  candidate 
and  writes  her  name  in  on  the  coupons  that  come  out 
in  every  paper.  Subscriptions  count  big  too.  He  gath- 
ers the  coupons  on  his  ad  collecting  route — says  he 
can  do  it  just  as  easy  as  not.  I  bet  he'll  be  asking  all 
those  people  at  the  picnic  to-day  for  their  coupons !" 

"That's  just  like  him !"  Miss  Prinzep  laughed. 

"See  here !"  Hugh  Marantle  had  swerved  to  watch  a 
looming  white  shape  far  on  the  smoky  blue  pavement 
of  the  lake. 

"Where  are  the  marine  glasses,  Raoul?"  Miss  Prin- 
zep called  to  a  stocky  alert  fellow  beside  Andre. 

"I  wonder  .  .  ."  Andre  exclaimed,  as  she  took  the 
glasses  from  the  friendly  Raoul,  "I  wonder  .  .  .  it's 
the  excursion  steamer  from  Chicago  bringing  over  a 
crowd  for  the  Sokol  picnic!  ...  At  Cutler's  Beach!" 

With  the  marine  glasses  it  was  easy  to  see  the  three 
decks  and  the  shifting  bright  figures.  They  watched  its 
swelling  whiteness  in  such  silence  that  it  seemed  a  ship 
of  apparition. 

Then  someone  laughed :  "I  hear  a  band !" 

In  dreamy  gusts  came  the  fantastic  gaiety  of  far-off 
music.  And  in  that  moment  Rose's  party  knew  as  well 
as  though  they  had  publicly  put  their  heads  together 
that  they  would  push  on  to  Cutler's  Beach.  The  De- 
troiters'  invitation  to  dinner  in  the  saloon  was  declined 
and  they  set  off  along  the  resounding  shore. 

IV 

Behind  the  breakwater  at  Cutler's  Beach  towered  the 
City  of  Grand  Haven  with  glistening  empty  decks.  The 


126     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

Sokol  drills  were  over,  and  the  bizarre  bright  crowd 
were  pouring  in  to  the  ball  grounds. 

A  stout  Bohemian  and  his  stout  son  in  red  zouaves 
dashed  by,  talking  in  the  clashing  Crech  tongue.  Buckles 
flashed  from  their  shoes.  A  tall  fellow  with  a  livid 
scar  across  one  cheek,  above  a  luxurious  lace  collar, 
went  clowning  by  with  a  Slovak  lass  in  Carpathian 
gipsy  dress.  "Od  Polodna  dobra!"  he  bowed  to  Louise. 

"Let's  go  on  to  the  ball  ground!"  she  urged.  She 
had  felt  the  fellow's  hot  breath  on  her  arm. 

Through  the  sultry  shimmer  the  red  zouave  figures 
of  the  Durand  team  fluttered  afield,  and  began  a  clash- 
ing chatter.  The  blue  trousered  lead-off  man  of  the 
Chicago  Sokol  stepped  out  with  a  falcon  feather  sput- 
tering on  his  azure  cap.  He  bingled  and  cleared  for 
second  amidst  a  mad  roar  from  the  excursion  crowd. 

"The  Reds  are  simply  outclassed,"  said  Marantle, 
when  four  runs  had  torn  across  home  plate,  and  the 
Reds  ran  in  from  the  field  shouting  hoarsely. 

"Why  don't  they  put  Stash  in !"  Louise  almost  wrung 
her  hands. 

And  when  the  Reds  took  the  field  again  in  grim  de- 
jection Stash  was  with  them. 

"See  his  funny  little  feather  whiffering!"  said  Andre. 
Her  throat  tightened  as  she  saw  him  skip  lightly  back- 
ward, pluck  down  a  wild  throw  and  with  the  same  ges- 
ture spin  it  slurring  down  to  first. 

The  Blue  batter  stepped  aside  with  a  grinning,  friend- 
ly courtesy  to  let  Stash  warm  up.  It  was  plain  that  the 
Blues  weren't  worried  about  this  new  man. 

He  settled  his  cap  securely  and  hurled  his  whole 
weight  into  a  few  lightning  hot  shots.  .  .  .  Then, 
lurching  forward  as  though  he  would  throw  himself 


THE  GIFT  THAT  IS  GREATEST  OF  ALL    127 

out  of  the  box,  he  floated  up  one  that  fell  as  dead  as  a 
stone  beneath  the  soughing  stick.  Strike  one ! 

The  sultry  gloom  of  the  Durand  crowd  burst  into  a 
roar. 

"See  poor  old  Varsh!"  Andre  laughed.  Big  Varsh 
was  springing  about  on  his  red  bloomered  legs,  shout- 
ing wildly. 

On  the  next  offering  the  batter  laid  down  a  chunky 
bunt,  which  Stash  fielded  to  first  with  a  startled  rush. 
Shouts  of  "Durand!  Plazarski!  Durand!"  filled  the 
air. 

But  Stash's  heart  was  pounding  painfully.  His 
friends  were  watching,  expecting  wonders  from  him 
now!  He  saw  Rika's  flushed  face  in  the  stand.  The 
moment  for  testing  all  his  foolish  windy  theories  was 
here !  The  cruel  black  stick  and  smiling,  squinting  eyes 
of  the  giant  Blue  daunted  him.  Turning  for  a  last 
little  glimpse  of  Marika's  win-or-die  look,  Stash  drew 
a  deep  breath  and — snapped  his  fingers  from  under  the 
ball.  .  .  .  The  big  Blue  chopped  smashingly  above  it! 

Still  the  big  fellow  towered  confidently,  wearing  his 
winsome  smile  that  made  you  want  to  yield  to  him. 
Stash  stared  above  the  man's  shoulder  to  focus  the 
magic  spot;  took  the  ball  into  his  big  fingered  confi- 
dence and  streaked  it  like  a  white  hot  shell.  The  black 
bat  caught  it  with  a  slurring  ring.  High  it  spouted  like 
a  slender  fountain  thread  .  .  .  then  down,  down  .  .  . 
into  Kublik's  heavy  mit.  The  big  Blue  threw  down 
his  stick  with  an  apologetic  grin.  The  crowd  roared. 
The  next  man  singled,  but  Stash,  with  a  light-hearted 
sweep  and  snap,  pegged  him  off  second.  Not  a  run. 

Rose  saw  Stash's  falcon  feather  bobbing  above  the 
heads  of  the  Durand  team  as  they  swarmed  in  to  the 
bench.  That  wild-looking  brother  of  Stash  was  danc- 


128     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

ing  with  Hartranft  and  the  scarred  fellow  of  the  lace 
collar. 


In  a  rush  of  enthusiasm  the  Reas  drove  in  two  runs, 
making  the  score  5 — 3.  Stash  fanned  ignominiously. 
But  the  Reds  made  a  great  joke  of  it,  patting  him  on 
the  back  as  though  he  had  done  a  mighty  thing.  He 
took  the  box  again  with  an  ugly  cross-fire  in  his  finger 
tips  and  struck  out  two  men. 

The  next  inning  added  another  run  to  the  Reds' 
score,  and  Stash  in  high  elation  brought  Marika  round 
to  the  Maddon  car.  She  slipped  in  between  Andre  and 
Louise,  who  had  to  admire  her  blue  lajblik,  or  bodice, 
with  its  red  and  lavender  embroidery.  There  was  a 
sort  of  stored-away  perfume  and  foreign  smell  about 
it  that  seemed  to  remove  her  from  the  usual  Marika  as 
did  the  odd  dressing  of  her  hair  and  the  excited  shin- 
ing of  her  eyes. 

Another  run  came  in,  mounting  the  score  to  5 — 5. 
Stash  plucked  off  his  jaunty  falcon  cap  and  stuck  it  on 
Louise's  head.  He  laughed  delightedly  at  the  effect. 
Louise  of  course  put  it  on  Andre,  and  after  that  Rose 
had  to  try  it  on. 

"Gettin'  all  kinds  of  subscriptions  and  coupons  to- 
day !"  Stash's  dry  lip  flicked  back  eagerly. 

"I  didn't  want  him  to  do  it,"  Marika  explained,  "but 
he  had  already  entered  my  name." 

"Coin'  to  win  too !"  he  exclaimed  confidently. 

"If  it's  so  easy  to  talk,"  said  Andre,  "let's  see  you 
smash  out  a  good  hit  next  time  you're  up!" 

"That's  so!"  said  Rose  in  pretended  surprise,  nod- 
ding the  falcon  feather  on  her  head.  "He  hasn't  made 
a  hit  yet,  has  he?" 


THE  GIFT  THAT  IS  GREATEST  OF  ALL    129 

Stash's  mingled  chagrin  and  amusement  were  laugh- 
able. 

"Stash,"  said  Marika,  frowning  anxiously,  "don't 
please  go  round  for  more  votes  after  the  game!" 

"Why  sure! — just  the  time  to  do  it — if  we  win  the 
game !"  He  appealed  to  Hugh  Marantle. 

"Of  course!"  said  Hugh,  grave  satire  twinkling  in 
his  dark  eyes. 

"I  must  go,  I'm  next  up,"  said  Stash,  and  patted 
Andre's  hand  that  rested  on  the  door's  edge. 

"Remember,  Stash!"  she  warned,  "that  just  one  per 
cent  may  be  all  you  need  to  squirm  you  over  into  a 
grand  stand  play." 

"You! — "  he  pulled  his  eyebrows  down  against  his 
craggy  nose — "do  you  know  you  talk  the  bummest  talk 
sometimes !" 

In  another  moment  he  was  at  the  plate.  Two  men 
down,  and  score  5  to  5.  The  crowd  broke  into  wild 
uproar.  .  .  .  "Plazzy!  Pally  Plazarski !  Plaz!" 

Stash  tipped  two  fouls.  The  big  Blue  squinted  with 
inscrutable  amusement.  One  more  chance.  .  .  .  Crash ! 
His  bat  had  broken — and  the  ball  bounced  and  trickled 
off. 

"Run!" 

His  legs  felt  like  feathers  under  him  ...  he  lunged 
at  the  swimming  bag.  The  shout  told  him  he  had  made 
it.  ...  He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  was  off  like  a  mad- 
man. It  was  so  wildly  wrong  that  the  first  baseman 
was  startled  into  a  half  throw.  Stash  ploughed  through 
the  second  baseman,  upsetting  his  catch,  and  swung  on 
to  third.  The  air  shook  with  one  roar.  He  reached 
the  third  sack  and  stopped  with  a  wide  lead-off,  vibrat- 
ing towards  home.  Varsh  joined  the  two  Red  coachers 
and  threw  in  his  frenzied  bass  "Stash-a-boy !" 


130     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

The  batter  laid  down  a  drive  which  the  Blue  pitcher 
fielded  magnificently.  But  Stash's  daring  lead  mingled 
a  menace  with  the  sudden  stormy  darkness  that  had 
been  rolling  up;  caused  the  catcher  to  muff  the  throw, 
and  flung  him  in  a  cascade  of  dust  and  arms  and  feet 
across  the  plate.  .  .  .  He  found  himself  whirling 
round  and  round  in  Varsh's  arms. 


VI 

The  next  two  innings  were  played  in  a  dark  domed 
ocean  of  livid  light.  The  Grand  Haven  surveyed  the 
colored  tumult  from  a  glistening  white  aloofness. 

"We'd  better  be  pulling  out  of  this,"  Marantle  looked 
at  the  heavy  purple  blackness  in  the  southwest. 

"Just  to  the  end  of  this  inning!"  pled  Andre. 

The  next  man  struck  out  in  freshening  puffs  of  rain. 
A  few  moments  more  and  the  ozone  pungent  rain  was 
sheeting  across  the  diamond.  The  crowd  began  stream- 
ing toward  the  Casino.  The  game  was  called  a  seven 
inning  game,  and  the  Red  Sokol  had  won. 

Marantle  swung  the  car  into  the  shelter  of  the  rus- 
tic dining  pavilion.  Here  Stash  came  running  to  them, 
and  helped  Hugh  put  up  the  top  and  side  curtains. 

"It's  so  gloomy  and  cozy  in  here — let's  stay !"  urged 
Andre.  They  could  see  the  white-caps  freshening  on 
the  dark  lake.  Behind  the  pavilion  the  steamer  rose 
ghostly  white. 

A  lull  came  and  Marantle  swung  the  car  out.  Good- 
byes were  called  to  Marika,  who  stood  aside  with 
Stash,  looking  like  some  sort  of  gipsy  princess  in  the 
shadowy  spaces  of  the  rustic-roofed  pavilion.  Stash 
waved  his  falcon  cap,  and  took  Marika' s  hand  to  run 
across  to  the  Casino,  where  the  bands  were  already 


THE  GIFT  THAT  IS  GREATEST  OF  ALL    131 

playing  and  electric  lights  twinkled  in  the  lofty  gloom. 

There  was  dancing  and  great  noise  and  chatter 
around  the  sides  of  the  huge  room.  The  colored  cos- 
tumes were  somehow  enhanced  by  the  gloom ;  and  that 
queer  stored-away  perfume  was  loose,  made  more  pun- 
gent by  the  rain.  . 

Stash  held  tight  to  Marika's  hand,  but  now  and  then 
he  was  torn  away  by  joyful  groups.  Once  he  heard 
his  name  called — "Plazarski !" — and  found  the  big 
pitcher  of  the  Blues  at  his  shoulder. 

"You  pitched  a  great  game,  boy !" 

"You  had  me  scared  though !"  Stash  grinned.  "This 
Miss  Varika  .  .  .  let's  see,  your  name's  Krichek?" 

"Sure! — All  I  wanted  was  a  dance  with  this  little 
girl !"  He  gave  her  his  nicest  smiling  squint. 

"Well,  I  ought  to  known !"  Stash  laughed ;  "now  go 
ahead  and  say  what  you  really  think  of  me?" 

"Well "  The  big  fellow  tucked  Marika's  slen- 
der wrist  under  his  big  arm,  "I  wouldn't,  little  boy,  hold 
my  bat  across  the  grain — it  might  smash  that  way !" 

"Oh,  you  wouldn't — well,  I  got  a  run  out  of  it." 

"Yes,  and  won  your  own  game!"  The  squint  was 
very  mellow  now.  "Never  can  tell !  Like  with  me  now. 
.  .  .  See  me  ?  .  .  .  When  I  don't  win  one  thing  I  win 
another! — " — He  smiled  down  at  Marika;  and  they 
Swept  off  on  the  wide  floor. 

The  Shabbatas  next  adopted  Stash,  and  told  every- 
body in  loud  voices  how  he  had  grown  up  close  to 
them.  He  suddenly  assaulted  them  for  subscriptions 
and  so  rid  himself  of  all  but  Boly.  The  only  way  he 
could  shake  Boly  was  to  promise  him  a  dance  with 
Jennika  Varika.  After  leading  him  round  to  her  he 
even  bettered  the  scheme  by  taking  the  dance  for  him- 
self, leaving  poor  old  Boly  with  a  gay  laugh.  This 


132     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

trick  so  raised  his  spirits  that  he  forgot  Bart  Shabbata's 
husky  muttering  of  Marynia's,  his  mother's,  name, 
which  nonetheless  had  driven  a  sliver  of  doubt  into 
his  head  to  lie  and  fester  there. 


VII 

The  Chicago  band  left.  The  startling  bass  Jwar  of 
the  Grand  Haven  jarred  through  the  building.  They 
went  out  to  see  her  stand  away  on  the  stormy  lake — 
with  a  thousand  gemming  lights. 

The  crowd  that  was  left  drew  closer  together :  "Like 
all  one  family,"  Marika  told  Stash.  Even  Hartranft 
danced — the  old  country  dances,  polka,  dumka,  mazur- 
ka. By  and  by  there  were  fewer  dancers  on  the  floor, 
and  fathers  cut  shamelessly  across  to  gather  in  elusive 
children.  The  electric  trains  began  gonging  outside 
the  grounds.  The  band  stopped  in  the  middle  of  a 
mazurka  and  began  playing  "Homeland  Mine."  Sev- 
eral older  fellows  like  Varika  hummed  it-  in  their 
beards.  The  first  train  clanged  away  to  the  south,  and 
Stash  and  Marika  on  the  Casino  gallery  took  their 
last  look  at  the  white-caps  winking  out  on  the  dark 
lake. 

VIII 

As  soon  as  he  got  into  town  Stash  ran  up  to  the 
printing  office  to  fill  out  his  coupons.  Hartranft  was 
writing  the  story  of  the  picnic,  and  "Hungry"  Sartos, 
the  printer,  was  setting  it  up. 

"Look  here!"  Stash  held  up  a  coupon  to  the  light, 
"see  those  grease  spots! — that's  a  five  hundred  vote 
coupon  that  ol'  Turichek  grabbed  off  their  lunch  for 


THE  GIFT  THAT  IS  GREATEST  OF  ALL 

me.  An'  his  wife  hollered — 'There,  you  leave  de 
chicken  all  bare!' — Like  it  was  a  baby!"  Stash  chuckled. 
"Say,  Hungry,  wouldn'  it  be  a  great  scheme  to  run  off 
some  coupons  like  these  on  our  kicker  press?"  He 
laughed  at  the  sudden  whim. 

"Yes,  an'  get-a-gpod  caught  at!"  said  Sartos. 

"Say,  I  didn't  mean  to  do  it,  you  Hungry-head!" 
snorted  Stash ;  and  turned  to  his  signing,  slashing  Mar- 
ika's  name  across  the  sleazy  paper  and  signing  his  own 
— S.  Plazarski. 

He  still  wore  his  white  tunic;  his  falcon  cap  lay  on 
the  exchange  table  beside  him.  His  high  head  stood 
out  against  the  deep  night  blue  of  the  open  window. 

Sartos  stood  watching  him,  and  a  slow  grin  spread 
over  his  mucilage-colored  face  with  its  scanty  Avar 
beard. 

CHAPTER  II 


The  next  week  ran  off  in  quick-step  fashion.  The 
Durand  Tribune  had  played  up  Stash  in  its  story  of 
the  Sokol  picnic.  With  Mar's  and  Scarbro's  help 
he  had  worked  up  a  new  sketch  called  "A  Fool  and  His 
Fiddle."  Miss  Prinzep  had  sent  word  by  a  Turba 
green-stacker  that  on  the  next  fine  moonlight  night  a 
dancing  party  from  Durand  would  be  expected.  Stash 
looked  forward  with  elation  to  such  a  night  and  such  a 
dance  on  board  the  Lady  Island. 

On  Friday  afternoon  someone  called  up  the  printing 
office  and  asked  Hartranft  if  S.  Plazarski  worked 
there.  "He  does,"  boomed  the  printer. 

"Then  tell  him  from  the  Tribune  that  we  want  to 


134     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

settle  with  him  on  the  commission  basis.  He  and  his 
candidate  are  thrown  out.  And  we  want  you  to  know 
that  he's  been  using  someone's  press  to  run  off  cou- 
pons like  ours,"  said  the  brusque  voice,  "and  sent  them 
in  for  Miss  Varika.  But  they  hardly  match  ours." 

Flushed  and  angry,  the  printer  conveyed  his  conster- 
nation to  Sartos. 

The  glue-colored  face  with  its  scrofulous,  scanty 
beard  wrinkled  uneasily :  "You  know  dat  night  w'en 
he  say  w'at  a  scheme  would  it  be  to  print  off  some?" 
He  was  breathing  heavily.  "An'  I  say — yes,  an'  be  a 
good  caught  at  it!  I  would  a  told  him  how  dat  it 
wouldn't  work  widout  de  types  like  deirs,  but  he  says 
he  was  foolin'  an'  such." 

"Was  it  picnic  night?"  Hartranft  asked.  He  knew 
only  too  well  that  it  was ;  and  was  tortured  by  the  feel- 
ing that  he  remembered  those  very  words  from  Stash. 
When  an  hour  later  Stash  came  springing  up  the  stairs, 
Hartranft  reported  the  Tribune  man's  message  with- 
out a  word  of  softening. 

"He  lies !"  shouted  Stash. 

"Hold  on  now — go  careful " 

"Hold  on  nothing!"  thundered  Stash.  "Whoever 
says  I  did  lies !"  And  with  all  his  anger,  it  seemed  as 
if  a  terrible  knot  was  tightening  on  his  throat.  "How'd 
you  think  I  could  do  it  with  you  around — and  Sartos  ?" 

"At  night — on  the  elbow  kicker.  The  doing's  sim- 
ple!" 

"I  didn't!"  Stash  knotted  all  the  force  of  him  be- 
hind his  bulging  brows. 

"Prove  it  to  them  then/'  said  Hartranft;  "you'd  bet- 
ter go  right  over  now." 


THE  GIFT  THAT  IS  GREATEST  OF  ALL    135 


ii 


When  they  couldn't  be  persuaded  at  the  Tribune 
office  that  the  writing  on  the  faked  coupons  was  differ- 
ent from  Stash's,  he. asked  for  some  of  the  faked  stuff 
to  show  Hartranft. 

The  contest  manager,  Bill  Marion,  told  him  to  take 
it  along:  "I  hope  you  can  satisfy  him,  young  fellow. 
But  your  writing  hasn't  any  fixed  character;  and  this 
faked  stuff  is  scrawled  as  if  you'd  been  in  a  wild  hurry 
.  .  .  well,  you  see!" 

Then  Stash's  dark  eyes  pled  along  with  his  hand 
thrown  out :  "Don't  let  this  go  in !" 

"No  can  stop.  It's  locked.  You  see — with  your 
Savoy  stuff — and  the  Sokol  team — you  see  how  it  is. 
It's  news.  Sorry!  I  have  a  feeling  you're  all  right, 
Plazarski — and  if  I  can  ever  do  anything  personally — 
come  see  me!" 

Stash  hurried  back  to  Hartranft's;  and  slashing  off 
his  name  in  a  wild  hurry,  placed  it  first  beside  the  gen- 
uine coupons,  and  then  beside  the  fakes.  His  upper 
lip  flicked  back  in  savage  white  eagerness :  "Now  see 
— in  my  writings  there  isn't  that  funny  little  quirk  in 
the  M  ...  in  the  Marika" — his  voice  trembled  out  in 
an  angry  whisper. 

"He  might  have  plan  to  change  that  little  bit," 
Sartos  spoke  over  his  shoulder,  "so  to  let  him  out  if  he 
got  caught." 

"Well,  that's  right!"  said  Hartranft,  "and  Sartos 
says  you  spoke  to  him  once  of  printing  coupons?" 

Stash  made  a  spring  and  gripped  Sartos'  humped 
shoulder.  "That's  how  you  got  the  idea!"  he  shouted. 
"He  printed  'em!" 


136     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

"Now  see  here !"  said  Hartranft,  "you  make  matters 
worse  by  showing  like  a  cavalry  officer!" 

Stash  turned  ablaze  on  him :  "I  got  a  notion  all  the 
time  that  he  was  the  one!  His  speakin'  up  showed  he 
was  'fraid  it  wasn'  goin'  to  stick  on  me !  I  didn'  tackle 
him  till  then,  did  I  ? — Answer  me  that !" 

"N0 "  Hartranft  stared  at  him  coolly,  "you've 

just  been  a  little  too  fresh  and  frisky  ever  since  you 
came  here." 

"Yes,  and  that's  what  Sart  had  against  me,  I  s'pose !" 
He  stared  down  at  the  floor,  a  sudden  shame  and  mis- 
ery overcoming  him,  presenting  him  poignant  images 
of  his  people,  the  Fentrees,  Varikas,  Marika — all  over- 
whelmed by  his  disgraceful  situation.  It  seemed  as  if 
he  could  not  control  the  flood  of  terrible  unhappiness 
that  twisted  his  throat  and  burned  his  eyes.  .  .  .  Mar- 
ika! .  .  .  Stooping,  he  scratched  blindly  on  the  floor 
for  the  scattered  coupons  .  .  .  hiding  his  face. 

Suddenly  he  felt  his  head  full  to  bursting,  and  in  a 
fearful  revulsion  from  that  shame  he  raised  himself. 
.  .  .  His  arm  started  out  towards  Sartos.  His  bulging 
brows  closed  his  eyes  to  black  points.  Hartranft  made 
a  move  to  stop  him.  .  .  . 

"I  see  you,  Sartos!  You  don't  pull  away  behind 
him  like  that !  You  thought  I  was  gettin'  ahead  of  you, 
huh!  You're  going  to  clear  me  out  o'  town!  .  .  . 
That's  why  you  been  trying  to  scare  me  about  old 
Jastrow — tellin'  that  he  promised  to  clean  out  the 
Plazarskis  so  long  as  there's  any  left  around!  Well, 
I'm  here!  .  .  .  An'  he  can  remember  what  Uncle  Jan 
did  when  Leo  Jastrow  tried  to  squeeze  him!  I  don' 
blame  him  if  he  remembers  that!  .  .  ." 

"Hold  on!  Hold  on!"  Hartranft  stepped  between 
them. 


THE  GIFT  THAT  IS  GREATEST  OF  ALL    137 

''Hold  on  nothing!"  thundered  Stash,  lifting  his 
packed  fist.  "I  got  a  bunch  of  fives  for  all  of  you — 
see!"  His  voice  roared  and  rocketed  in  the  small 
room.  He  had  got  himself  into  a  drunken  rush  of  out- 
rage, where  he  cared  only  to  sweep  on  into  worse  out- 
rage, outdoing  that  which  had  been  done  to  him.  "And 
I'm  just  that  much  afraid  of  old  man  Jastrow — or  any 
the  fellows  hangs  round  his  hole — that  I  tell  you  to 
come  on! — just  come  on!"  He  fell  back  towards  the 
door,  and  shouting  again — "Come  on!" — he  swung 
through  the  dark  hallway  and  drummed  downstairs. 

CHAPTER  III 


Stash  took  his  newspaper  to  a  bench  in  the  Court 
House  square.  It  was  getting  dusk ;  a  cab  clattered  by ; 
moths  circled  the  icy  lavender  of  an  arc  lamp.  He 
turned  to  the  sporting  page,  where  a  week  ago  there 
had  been  a  racy  pen  and  ink  sketch  of  himself  among 
the  picturesque  or  funny  figures  of  the  Sokol  picnic. 
He  read  the  words  of  the  baseball  news,  as  if  by  bleak 
force  of  habit  to  return  to  those  days  of  bright  triumph. 
.  .  .  A  far  off  world  from  this  land's  end!  .  .  .  Sud- 
denly that  look  of  Bartek  Shabbata's  and  his  hoarse 
whispering  of  Stash's  mother's  name  came  into  his 
head.  .  .  .  His  mother  ?  .  .  .  What  did  it  mean  ?  .  .  . 
Well  .  .  .  oh,  God!  how  he  hated  everybody!  He 
sprang  up  and  started  across  the  square. 

After  a  tasteless  lunch  at  the  Whitehaven,  he  wan- 
dered slowly  down  to  the  Savoy.  He  was  the  first  man 
through  the  zinc  door,  and  sat  in  the  pit's  vaulted  dusk, 


138    STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

turning  his  music  in  an  effort  to  forget  the  wild  fancies 
that  tore  through  his  head — drowning  the  rumbling  of 
the  empty  theatre  and  the  random  gusts  of  whistling  or 
clattering  calls  "in  back." 

The  house  filled  up,  and  his  call  for  the  sketch  took 
him  behind.  He  went  through  his  lines  and  music  in  a 
kind  of  daze  of  desperation,  feeling  that  every  eye  was 
pitying  or  scorning  him,  and  at  the  curtain  found  Sla- 
son  muttering  staccato  in  his  ear : 

"You  jingled  your  cues,  Plaz;  if  you  don't  get  a 
better  hand  to-morrow's  mat,  we'll  have  to  pull  it  off 
the  bill.  .  .  .  Get  in  though  and  vamp  up  another, 
kid." 

But  Stash  felt  this  was  his  conge,  and  avoiding  little 
Mar's  reproachful,  partly  penitent  look,  he  swung  out 
into  the  alley. 

II 

He  had  forgotten  his  bold  defiance  in  Hartranft's 
office;  all  that  he  was  capable  of  feeling  now  was  a 
raging  desire  to  be  quit  of  it  all,  to  get  out  of  this  town 
where  everyone  despised  him. 

Turning  up  a  diagonal  path  beneath  the  dark  trees 
of  the  Court  House  grounds,  he  hurried  to  the  base- 
ment telephone  booth.  It  was  under  the  heavy  granite 
stairs,  where  a  flat  stony  smell  of  chlorides  from  the 
jail  cells  pooled  its  strength  with  other  bleak  odors. 

"Koban  Lake  241." 

How  many  times  he*  had  called  that  number  with 
Happy  eagerness  .  .  .  and  with  hasty,  poor  excuses! 

"Marika?  .  .  .  This  is  Stash,"  he  muttered  husk- 
ily. "Say,  Rika,  I  guess  there  isn't  any  place  in  this 
town  for  me — I  guess  I  got  to  go ! " 

"Oh,  Stash!  .  .  ."    His  heart  beat  faster  to  hear  her 


THE  GIFT  THAT  IS  GREATEST  OF  ALL    139 

voice  so  eager.  .  .  .  "You  mean  because — because  that 
in  the  paper  ?" 

"Yes,  but  I  didn'  do  it,  Rika!  .  .  ." 

"Don't  tell  me! — because  I  know,  I  know  you 
didn't!" 

"It  was  Sartos  put  it  on  me.  And  I  don'  care,  I 
wouldn'  care  at  all — if  it  didn'  take  you  in! — before 
them  all !  I'd  just  stay  an'  show  'em  how  much  I  cared. 
But  Slason  said  if  I  didn'  get  a  better  hand  to-morrow 
matinee  he'd  pull  me  off — an'  that  means  for  good. 
But  I'd  make  'em  give  me  a  strong  one!  I'd  put  it 
through!"  His  voice  rose  in  the  old  soaring  confi- 
dence, catching  a  contagion  of  hope  from  her  trem- 
bling laugh.  "I'd  put  it  through,  Rika,  if  I  knew  you 
didn'  mind !  All  the — the  shame !" 

"I  don't  care,  Stash,  if  you  don't  care!  All  I  care 
about  is  just  to  help.  Of  course  you  can  do  it !  I'll  just 
see  Andre  and  we'll  get  up  a  party  to  go  to  the  Savoy 
to-morrow.  .  .  .  We'll  just  give  you  such  terrible  ap- 
plause!" .  .  .  Her  tremulous  laugh — now  so  dim  and 
dear — seemed  floating  on  in  his  mind  after  he  had 
hung  up  the  receiver. 

in 

Out  on  the  street  again,  he  drew  a  deep  breath  to 
clear  his  lungs  of  the  ugly  perfumes  of  hellebore  and 
chloride,  and  sprang  along  towards  the  crest  like  reso- 
lution on  the  march.  He  felt  as  he  swung  down  Wacaser 
Street  to  Fentrees'  that  no  one  could  stop  him  or  down 
him. 

In  the  full  flush  of  this  new  impulse,  he  called  Andre 
out  on  the  veranda  and  told  her  his  plans.  .  .  .  "And 
Rika's  going  to  see  you — "  he  muttered  hoarsely — 


140     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

"and  you're  going  to  get  up  a  balcony  party — give  me 
a  strong  hand,  you  see,  at  to-morrow's  mat!  .  .  ." 

"Are  we?  ..."  Andre  acted  a  bit  astonished,  and 
paused.  .  .  .  Stash  heard  the  rustling  of  the  maples  in 
the  freshening  night  breeze.  .  .  .  He  caught  a  slant  of 
light  from  the  window  on  Andre's  face  .  .  .  and  saw 
something  strange  there.  .  .  . 

"But  I  expect  that  we're  going  over  to  the  Lady 
Island  to-morrow  evening,  you  know  .  .  ." 

"You  'spect?  .  .  ." 

"Why,  yes,  Rose  called  up  this  afternoon  and 
said " 

"Did  she  say  anything  about  me  going?"  Stash  de- 
manded with  a  harsh  ring  in  his  voice. 

«XT_  » 

JNo-O 

"No! Maybe  she's  seen  the  papers!  .  .  .  like 

you!"  He  made  a  stride  toward  the  edge  of  the  porch. 

"Wait — Stash!"  Andre  darted  after  him.  .  .  . 
"Rose  thought  maybe  you  wouldn't  want  to  go  now, 
perhaps.  .  .  .  And  you  know  from  the  start  I  didn't 
think  it  was  right — your  putting  up  Marika's  name 
without  her  knowing  it.  .  .  ." 

"Well,  I  didn'  care  about  that!"  Stash  threw  out  his 
hand,  "but  I  thought  you'd  be  by  me! — next  to  Rika!" 
His  face  shone  knotted  in  the  door  light. 

"I  would — oh,  I  would,  Stash But  all  gather- 
ing in  the  balcony  to  applaud  you It's  too " 

"Yes,  I  know — I  know  how  it  seems  to  you !  I  been 
too  fresh  all  the  time.  .  .  .  Expectin'  people  to  like  it 
when  I  got  ahead!  .  .  .  That's  the  fool  thing  of  all!" 
He  dropped  his  head,  laughing  a  little  gruffly.  ...  "I 
see  that  now  .  .  .  But  I  thought  anyway — somehow 
you'd  .  .  .  Oh,  I  dunno! — but  I  thought  you'd  be 
standing  by  me — next  to  Rika!  .  .  ." 


THE  GIFT  THAT  IS  GREATEST  OF  ALL    141 

He  paused  a  moment,  with  one  foot  lingering  on  the 
top  step;  and  in  that  moment  Andre  made  a  move  to 
fling  out  her  hands  to  him — and  draw  him  back — and 
tell  him  how  sorry  she  felt  for  him,  and  how  angry 
with  his  everlasting  "freshness"  and  absurd  repentent 
interest  in  himself,  and  how — after  all — how  she  loved 
him  for  the  sake  of  his  old  boyish  self  and  the  old 
times!  .  .  . 

But  in  that  moment  something  strange  and  wild  had 
come  over  his  face,  and  he  had  sprung  down  the  steps 
and  started  off  up  the  street  at  a  run. 


CHAPTER  IV 


Stash  came  in  late  that  night ;  it  was  long  before  he 
slept;  and  he  awakened  the  next  morning  from  out  of 
a  horrible  dream.  ...  In  the  dreary  old  hotel  room 
his  mother  had  been  crying  to  him.  .  .  .  He  sat  on  the 
top  of  the  black  piano  where  Uncle  Jan  had  put  him. 
.  .  .  His  father  Bolish  was  staring  angrily  at  them — 
but  mostly  at  his  mother.  ...  It  hurt  him  with  the 
vague  but  awful  agony  of  dreams  to  think  how  she  had 
cried — how  she  had  held  out  her  arms  to  him — how  he 
had  pulled  away  in  fright.  .  .  . 

It  was  so  terribly  real,  and  seemed  connected  with 
his  feeling  of  queer  repulsion  for  the  dark  bulk  of  a 
piano.  .  .  .  Could  it  be  that  this  had  all  happened  back 
there  in  Koban  Lake  Hotel?  And  that  his  mother? 
.  .  .  Stirling  conjectures  pumped  through  his  brain  in 
this  dusky  hour  of  morning. 

He  had  seen  certain   base  and  significant  things 


STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

around  the  old  Tunnel  theatre ;  but  he  had  always  been 
too  busy  with  plunging  boyish  schemes  to  follow  these 
underground  trails.  But  now  in  his  brief  tortured  sleep 
certain  channels  of  his  brain  had  burst  down  and  poured 
out  clouds  of  horrible  suspicions.  .  .  .  Who  was  he? 
.  .  .  Did  Fentrees  know  anything  about  his  mother? 
.  .  .  What — what  if  he  had  printed  those  coupons — in 
his  sleep — or  in  some  hiatus  of  his  better  self !  .  .  .  He 
felt  his  head  whirling. 

All  morning  long  he  walked  about  the  back  streets  of 
town,  avoiding  everyone  he  knew,  thinking  and  fight- 
ing down  the  suspicions  that  tortured  him.  And  in  the 
afternoon  his  doubts  flooded  back  as  he  searched  the 
Savoy  tiers  for  a  sight  of  Marika!  .  .  .  None  of  his 
friends  were  there.  As  it  came  time  for  his  sketch  he 
felt  his  heart  pounding  inside  the  rough  coat  of  the 
foolish  fiddler.  And  the  lumpy  clothes  and  the  peaked 
shoddy  hat  he  felt  were  his  own — in  a  wild  dazed  feel- 
ing, as  though  drifting  out  of  his  old  life  forever.  .  .  . 

"  'I  stop  to  say  good-bye!'  "  he  cried,  "  'but  I  can't! 
.  .  .  On  account-a  dat  falcon  in  my  heart — he's  maka 
such  a  crying !  Not  dat  I  care'  " — storming  off  his 
desolation — "  'but  dat-a  falcon — in  thees  my  heart — 
Meesa  Lady — he's  a-dying!  .  .  .' ' 

Throwing  up  his  arms  as  if  terrified  at  something 
happening  inside  him,  he  flung  off  stage  playing  wildly 
on  his  violin.  The  stage  direction  of  the  playlet  had 
called  for  a  soft  diminuendo,  but  Stash  had  given  the 
thing  a  mad  turn,  a  passionate  abrupt  ending. 

"Jingled  again!"  Slason  made  to  stop  him  angrily. 

But  Stash  brushed  past,  casing  his  violin,  and  stum- 
bled blindly  into  the  alley. 


THE  GIFT  THAT  IS  GREATEST  OF  ALL    143 


II 


He  found  himself  wandering  out  on  the  Koban  Lake 
road.  At  times  he  sat  on  the  bank  of  the  river  with 
head  on  his  knees,  thinking,  thinking — until  he  could 
stand  it  no  longer,  and  sprang  up  a  little  wildly,  afraid 
of  himself. 

The  sun  was  slanting  low  when  he  reached  the  hos- 
tinets.  There  had  been  no  support  he  had  counted  on 
so  surely  as  Marika's.  She  had  been  staunch  for  him 
ever  since  the  earliest  days  .  .  .  even  when  he  hadn't 
been  especially  true  to  her.  He  saw  this  so  plainly 
now  in  his  sadness.  He  saw  that  nothing  could  ever 
take  the  place  of  loyalty.  His  terrible  want  of  it  now 
told  him  that  it  was  the  greatest  gift  of  all.  He 
couldn't  live  without  it.  Shame,  chagrin  and  fear  could 
not  keep  his  lagging  feet  from  dragging  him  towards 
Varikas'  in  despairing  search  of  it. 

Suddenly  he  saw  Varika  fidgeting  on  the  front  plat- 
form; and  behind  him  Marika,  looking  eagerly  but 
fearfully  forward,  yet  not  moving  beyond  the  door. 
She  began  to  speak  like  a  sleepwalker,  pantingly :  "I 
—Stash! " 

"You  keep  still!"  Varika  shot  back  at  her;  "and  as 
for  him — well,  dis ! — dat  he's  brought  such  a  shame  on 
you  dat  it's  enough  to  last  for  one  day !" 

"Who?"  croaked  Stash,  the  blood  filling  his  head. 

"You!"  shouted  Varika,  dashing  down  at  him: 
"Idea  my  lettin'  her  go  in  dere  to-day  to  dat  damn 
place — hear  you  f eedle  aroun' !  An'  everybody  lookin' 
at  her,  sayin'  what-a-fool  dat  girl  is  makin'  of  herself 
after  him!  Jus'  as  if  it  wasn'  enough,  to  put  her  name 
up  in  de  paper  an'  den  play  such  a  trick  dat  you  got 


144     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

ever 'body  laughin'  at  her!  Ansfer  me  dat!  Ah  God! 
I  don't  understand  what  a  smart  young  devil  you  got 
since  you  been  livin'  in  cities.  Clear  away  from  here 
widout  any  more  shame  for  my  girl  an'  my 
family! " 

Stash  quivered  between  choking  rage  and  a  burst  of 
scorching  tears. 

The  tears  were  now  streaming  down  Marika's 
cheeks,  while  she  did  nothing  but  hold  out  her  hands 
crossed — as  in  the  happy  days — toward  Stash! 

He  flung  out  an  arm  to  Varika:  "You  wouldn'  let 
me  tell  you  how  it  was  if  I  tried !  I  didri  do  it !  Can't 
you  see  I  wouldn' ! — 'cause  everything  is  killed  now !" 

The  terrible  ring  of  those  last  words  started  Marika 
forward  with  a  rush.  But  Stash  had  changed  sud- 
denly, shouting  at  Varika :  "You  think  I  care  what  you 
think! — just  like  that!" — hurling  his  fist  as  if  crash- 
ing something  to  the  ground.  "You  with  your 
damned  old  swobodie  talk  an'  foolishness!"  And  he 
swung  away  and  down  the  road. 

He  had  got  as  far  as  the  Buttonwood  bridge  when 
he  heard  someone  padding  in  the  dust  behind  him.  He 
pounded  swiftly  on,  yet  wondering  who — who.  .  .  . 
He  turned  and  saw — not  Marika — but  tasich  Varika. 
There  were  tears  in  his  eyes.  He  flung  his  arm  over 
Stash's  shoulder: 

"Good  God,  boy !  Couldn't  you  see  I  didn't  mean  it? 
— it  was  jus'  my  damn  fool  mouth!" 

Stash  flung  him  off,  but  paused;  and  something 
about  the  helpless  little  man  with  his  reddened  eyes 
screwed  Stash's  heart  with  an  anguishing  pity  for  them 
all.  In  another  moment  Varika  had  Stash's  arm 
hugged  against  his  side,  and  started  back,  talking  vo- 
ciferously in  a  voice  still  croaky  from  crying : 


THE  GIFT  THAT  IS  GREATEST  OF  ALL    145 

"Why,  I'd  have  to  kill  myself,  boy,  if  I  thought  I'd 
drove  you  away  like  dat ; — yes,  but  you  see  a  man  gets 
crazy  sometimes,  so  he's  gotto  do  something  just  op- 
posite to  what  he  wants,  for  de  poison  dat's  in  him!" 


in 

Later  when  they  were  happy  on  the  lavitza  together, 
Varika,  humming  and  letting  his  pipe  go  out  in  his 
jolly  perturbation,  finally  tapped  Stash's  shoulder: 
"But  when  you  say  dat  word  swoboda  at  me,  I  remem- 
ber all  in  a  flash  how  when  I  talk  swoboda  I  am  gen- 
erous an'  good" — he  waved  his  pipe — "an'  noble  to  all 
de  world!  You  see?" 

Stash  chuckled  heartily  in  token  of  understanding: 
"Of  course  I  was  a  fool,  blurtin'  that  out.  Say,  but  it 
was  all  like  when  you  used  to  come  after  us  with  your 
long  pipe  for  stealin'  fruit — unwindin'  that  green 
string  that  held  the  bowl  on  that  long  stem,  an'  beggin' 
us  to  stop  so's  you  could  beat  us  up  with  it." 

Varika  shouted  with  laughter.  "Same  way! — an'  I 
couldn't  have  beat  you  den!" 

And  the  moon  came  up,  marbling  the  ground  under 
the  alders.  And  Marika  said :  "I  s'pose  it's  shining  on 
the  boat  up  there — where  they're  dancing — Kra- 

kanosh "  There  was  a  note  of  appeal  in  that  old 

play  name — Krakanosh. 

"I  s'pose,"  said  Stash;  "and  which  place  would  I 
rather  be,  Rika?  You  know!  .  .  .  An'  I  don'  care 
that  I'm  out  of  my  jobs.  I'm  proud  I  don'  care !" 

"Varsh  is  working  in  the  Carnarvon  Iron  Com- 
pany  " 

"That's  the  Marantle  works,"  said  Stash. 

"Why  don't  you  go  in  there,  and  get  Varsh  on  their 


146     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

team — they've  got  such  a  fine  one  ?  Show  everybody — 
you  and  Varsh  together!  Don't  you  feel  about  Varsh 
— don't  you  want  to  help  him.  He's  so  good-natured. 
Don't  you,  Krakanosh?"  She  appealed  again  to  the 
play-name  of  old  play  times  in  Lantern  Woods. 
"Don't  you  feel  so  full  sometimes,  like  you  must  do 
something  for  Varsh? — Like  tasich-daddie  said  a 
while  ago.  It  would  be  so  nice  to  be  like  tasich  is ! — 
noble  and  generous  an'  good  he  said  he  was " 


"Na-na-na !    I  said  I  feel  generous  an'  all  dat  !- 


"No,  sir!"  laughed  Rika.  "You  left  out  the  feel— 
didn't  he,  Stash?  You  said — 'When  I  talk  swoboda 
I  am  generous  an'  noble '  " 

"Young  jertovmkF*  snorted  Varika,  while  Stash 
shouted. 

"Well— well— well!"  chuckled  Varika;  and  ad- 
dressed approaching  figures :  "Go  on  away,  Shabbata ; 
go  in  where  Alois  is — we're  alone."  The  shadowy  fig- 
ures from  the  moonlit  road  passed  in. 

"And  when  you  feel  that  way,"  continued  Marika, 
"best  you  would  do  it  right  off!  For  Varsh, 
Stash! " 

"I  believe  I  will!"  Stash  pounded  the  curved  arm 
of  the  lavitza.  Then  something  strangely  turned  his 
thought  from  that  splendid  enterprise  of  loyalty.  "Do 
you  know,"  he  suddenly  asked,  "anything — do  you  re- 
member anything  'bout  my  mother?" 

"No,  I  don't  remember  I  ever  saw  her  .  .  .  just 
hearing  about  her.  ..." 

"Oh-h-h "  said  Stash  softly,  with  a  sort  of  sup- 
pressed and  buried  anguish.  .  .  .  Out  beyond  the  al- 
ders shadowy  figures  passed  in  the  moonlit  road. 

1  Jertovnik  =  Joker. 


THE  GIFT  THAT  IS  GREATEST  OF  ALL    147 
CHAPTER  V 


Stash  brought  his  trunk  out  to  Koban  Lake  Hotel, 
to  live  with  Varsh,  and  went  into  the  Carnarvon  Iron 
works. 

It  gave  him  a  catch  of  pain  whenever  he  thought  of 
leaving  Fentree  without  a  word.  And  it  happened  one 
morning,  when  he  had  gone  in  to  town  to  meet  Lee 
Luders,  that  he  ran  into  the  lawyer  near  the  station. 
His  hurried  words — "Come  back  when  you  can, 
Stash  f"  and  his  harassed,  worried  look  haunted  Stash 
on  his  way  back  to  Varikas'. 

"Old  Lee" — whose  visit  Stash  had  planned  exult- 
antly— made  himself  at  home  in  no  time  at  the  hosti- 
nets.  The  charm  of  a  warm  cloudy  morning  with 
three  girls  to  question  him  about  life  and  Detroit  and 
himself  stimulated  the  bland  particularity  of  the 
fellow. 

Varika  dashed  out  to  apostrophize  him  now  and 
again:  "Didn't  hear  about  our  Sokol  picnic — great 
ol'  picnic  on  de  lake?" 

"Yes,"  smiled  young  Luders,  cupping  his  hands  to 
light  a  cigarette,  "I  simply  heard  about  that  extensively, 
from  a  newspaper  Stash  sends  me  and  these  ladies,  so 
that  probably  I  have  pretty  near  mastered  it." 

Varika  understood  this  for  a  rebuff;  but  it  was  so 
delightfully  given,  so  frank,  so  bland,  so  lazily  impu- 
dent, that  the  little  man  slapped  his  shoulder  and 
laughed :  "You  got  all  you  need  here,  eh? — Don't  want 
me  in  your  audience — all  right — all  right!" 


148     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 


Stash  had  left  for  his  work  at  the  Carnarvon.  Jen- 
nika  soon  tired  of  Lee  and  drifted  away.  But  Marika 
felt  that  she  must  entertain  Stash's  old  friend  so  that 
his  visit  would  be  a  big  success.  Hadn't  they  talked 
of  it  so  many  times — and  hoped  such  vague  tre- 
mendous things  of  it?  She  took  him  down  the  Koban 
road  to  the  overcast  lake,  and  there  in  a  scaly,  sandy 
old  boat  sat  listening  to  him  eagerly — anxiously. 

"You  see,"  said  Lee,  rolling  his  prominent  blue  eyes 
indolently,  "I  want  to  go  into  the  producin'  business, 
that  is,  y'know,  musical  shows,  for  in  that  is  the  best 
money;  so  that  if  Stash  wants  to  come  back  and  work 
up  the  show  line  gradual  while  I  work  up  the  musical 
line,  there  is  no  doubt  about  succeeding  later  on,  with 
capital.  Of  course  just  now  too  young,  but  you  see 
what  he  did  with  that  'She  Doesn't  Like  to  Talk 
About  Herself  which  he  sent  me  a  professional  copy, 
but  now  that's  a  good  song." 

"But  Mr.  Scarbro  did  most  of  that — Stash  just  gave 
him  the  idea." 

"Idears  is  just  what  I  like  him  best  to  have,  and 
then  the  rest  y'know  gradual;  and  if  he  would  let  me 
steer  him  we  could  be  producers  in  five  years " 

"But  you  see,"  said  Marika,  gripping  the  flutter  in 
her  hands  tight,  "I  want  you  would  help  him  work 
here,  until  he  has  shown  them  he  can't  be  put  down  by 
lies."  Her  voice  shook,  and  she  brought  down  her  fist 
on  the  edge  of  the  boat. 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Lee,  pausing  in  lighting  a  cigarette 
to  spread  out  one  hand,  "he  isn't  essential  to  my 


THE  GIFT  THAT  IS  GREATEST  OF  ALL    149 

schemes,  y'see;  it's  just  I  like  him  an'  we  get  along, 
—an'  I  like  him,  that's  all." 

"Well,  I  want  him  to  win  right  here,  so  that  people 
will  have  to  say — 'That's  Stash  Plazarski  that  they 
tried  to  put  down,  but  such  a  boy  as  he  was  got  right 

in  and  worked •  You  see!  Like  the  way  men 

talk.  Don't  you  think  it  would  give  him  the  best  feel- 
ing to  begin  that  way  ?"  Her  moist  dark  eyes,  flashing 
to  bits  of  gold,  sought  eagerly  a  solution  in  his  glazed 
blue  ones. 

"Perhaps  you're  right,"  he  said.  "I  will  present  him 
both  schemes.  ...  A  pretty  lake  here."  He  dusted 
cigarette  ashes  in  it.  "Y'see  I  can't  tell  what  he  wants 
to  make  of  himself.  Bla!  That's  the  whole  damn 
trouble  with  that  boy,  that  he  don't  himself  know  what 
he's  aimin'  for  solid!  No  idear!  Some  noble  fine 
thing  all  glitter — something  like  that  he  wants!  But 
practical  things — now  you're  talking!  I'm  not  telling 
what  I  live  for ;  I  live  for  good  things,  music,  flowers, 
pretty  sights,  good  food :  and  I  will  know  how  to  go 
about  it;  but  Stash  might  so  desire  to  do  some  crazy 
thing,  like  climbin*  up  on  a  high  peak,  fust  to  get 
there  an'  get  hoarse  yellin'f  Y'see  he's  a  little  bit 
crazy,  but  let  him  have  what  he  wants ;  that's  the  way 
I  am  with  people."  He  smiled  in  genial  recommen- 
dation of  himself. 

He  even  lent  himself  that  evening  to  analyzing 
Stash's  cross-fire,  when  a  small  crowd  gathered  by  the 
blacksmith  shop  on  the  clam-scented  shore  road  to 
watch  the  Plazarski  brothers  warming  up.  The  reck- 
less-faced younger  brother  stood  with  rough  shirt 
rolled  back  on  burn-scarred  arms.  Behind  him 
crouched  Lee  Luders,  snicking  up  his  ultra-smart  £ray 
trousers  and  whiffing  his  cigarette  as  he  suggeste  ^  im- 


150      STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

provements  based  on  his  minute  analysis  of  the  Amer- 
ican League  stars. 

in 

The  next  morning — Sunday — Stash  and  Lee  went 
down  to  Koban  Lake  and  rowed  out  lazily;  talking 
of  times  that  conjured  a  presentiment  of  such  a  city 
as  lives  on  northern  waters  only — or  in  one's  dreams. 
Luders  sketched  his  plans.  Stash  warmed  to  them. 

How  had  the  short  space  of  two  months  carried  him 
such  worlds  away  from  that  city  on  the  straits,  with 
its  varied  haunts  so  dear  ?  He  could  see  it  all  again : 
Lafayette,  St.  Aubin,  Joseph  Campau  and  John  R. — 
streets  so  different  from  Shabbona  and  Wacaser.  He 
gazed  into  blank  distance,  letting  those  vistas  change 
and  swim  desirably,  hauntingly,  before  him.  .  .  .  He 
saw  Autumn  coming  down  all  the  long  avenues.  .  .  . 

And  then  he  thought  of  Marika,  and  his  promise 
that  he  would  stay  and  fight  it  out.  Nothing  binding 
of  course.  .  .  .  He  saw  Person's  Landing  on  the 
river,  and  St.  Clair  with  its  azure  Venice  realm.  .  .  . 

"How  did  you  get  the  idear  about  that  song/'  Lu- 
ders asked,  "  'She  Doesn't  Like  to  Talk  About  Her- 
self?" 

"Well! — they  never  did — around  the  old  Tunnel 
theatre — no!  just  till  they  got  all  out  of  breath,  that's 
all!"  He  chuckled.  "Oh,  Lee!  we  had  fun  there! 
Heh?"  An  exuberance  of  memory  warmed  him  all 
through.  He  smelled  the  rose-geranium  stale  fra- 
grance of  the  old  theatre  with  its  peculiar  odor  of 
make-up  stuff.  .  .  .  "And  the  violin  shop,  heh  ?"  His 
eyes  squinted  shut  with  the  recollection  of  the  resiny 
old  room;  he  saw  the  blue-tinged  daffodil  lights  crop- 
ping out  in  Library  Street;  and  the  murmur  of  Spring 


THE  GIFT  THAT  IS  GREATEST  OF  ALL    151 

evenings  was  in  the  air.  .  .  .  The  shadow  of  his 
mother  suddenly  crossed  the  picture. 

"Did — did  my  mother  say  anything  'bout  my  com- 
ing back?" 

For  the  first  time  Lee  seemed  disconcerted ;  he  tapped 

the  ashes  from  his  cigarette:  "Why,  not  much " 

In  truth  he  too  had  warmed  to  the  prospect  of  having 
Stash  with  him  again.  With  Stash's  strength  bent  to 
his  plans  he  saw  them  taking  speedier  fruition. 

Stash  was  sunk  in  thought:  something  had  fogged 
the  picture. 

Then  young  Luders  did  a  thing  fairly  courageous: 
"Y'know,"  he  said,  "she — the  little  girl  here,  y'know — 
she  wants  you  to  stay — pretty  bad  she  wants  it." 

"Does  she?  ..."  stammered  Stash.  He  saw  the 
smoky  dark  eyes  taking  fire  of  gold — as  they  had 
looked  into  his  eyes,  oh,  so  many  times.  .  .  .  He  had 
promised  her.  .  .  . 

"I  guess — I  guess,  Lee,  I  better  stay  here  for  that 
chance  of  working  up  on  the  Carna'von  team — and 
then  Durand  Tri-State.  You  know — it's  a  chance." 

"It's  a  chance "  said  Luders.  "Go  to  it."  He 

was  blandly  noncommittal.  But  a  little  later,  feeling 
that  Stash  must  be  disappointed,  he  said :  "Besides — 
I  wouldn't  keep  it  from  you  that  your  mother  doesn't 
want  you  back ;  although  I  did  keep  it  back  at  first,  be- 
cause you  have  a  right  to  decide  for  yourself  .  .  .  but 
I  know  that  for  a  fact." 

Stash  hung  his  head  and  looked  down  into  the 
bubbling  green  depths. 

"She  thinks — I  wouldn't  say  what  she  thinks — as 
I  have  no  idear — but  she  says  it  is  better  for  you  to 
stay  here." 

He  left  that  afternoon;  and  it  was  in  the  evening 


152     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

when  Stash  sat  strangely  silent  on  the  lavitza  that 
Marika  said:  "Stash — Stash,  I  wanted  to  tell  you — 
don't  think  just  because  you  told  me  you'd  stay 
that " 

"You're  wantin'  me  to  go,  are  you?"  he  demanded 
with  a  sort  of  morose  chuckle. 

"No — oh,  Stash,  no!  But  I  got  to  thinking  about 
your  mother — since  that  night  you  spoke  about  her — 
oh,  ever  since.  Maybe  she's  just  in  such  a  longing 
to  have  you  back.  But  I  couldn't  speak! — Until  Lee 
came  and  told  what  chances  for  you  back  there." 

"Those  chances  are  all  in  his  head,"  said  Stash 
gruffly;  "my  mother  doesn't  want  me  back — Lee  said 
so." 

"Oh-h-h "  said  Marika  softly,  just  as  Stash  had 

said  it  that  night  when  he  had  questioned  her  about 
his  mother. 

CHAPTER  VI 


In  her  secret  heart  Marika  thought  Lee  Luders  not 
good  enough  for  Stash ;  but  she  was  elated  when  Tom 
Shieling  joined  their  nights  under  the  alder  trees, 
around  the  lavitza. 

Tom  found  a  strange  fascination  in  all  this:  Varsh 
and  Karshenko  making  a  hudba  with  their  accordions ; 
the  girls  dancing;  the  little  strolls  up  the  starlit  road; 
the  jokes  and  the  gaiety,  of  such  a  haunting  flavor 
as  hung  round  the  old  lobby  with  its  poppy  seed  spici- 
ness.  At  times  he  caught  a  flashing  smile  from  Jen- 
nika,  and  his  heart  flared  up  like  a  throbbing  red 
cinder. 


THE  GIFT  THAT  IS  GREATEST  OF  ALL    153 

Before  Tom  as  witness — Stash  grew  proud  of  being 
in  the  heart  of  this  hot  dusky  life.  When  the  night's 
fun  was  over,  as  he  swung  down  the  road  with  Karsh 
and  devilish  Karshenko  arm  in  arm,  singing  comically 
or  with  sudden  spurts  of  passion,  he  felt  that  he  be- 
longed here.  He  said  good-bye  exultantly  to  all  his 
chance  of  splendid  enterprise  and  retired  as  with  a 
shout  of  passionate  repudiation  to  this  pulsating  land 
whose  dark  night  shore  gave  him  revel. 


ii 

Leaning  over  the  Button  wood  bridge  one  noon, 
Marika  spoke  to  Tom  Shieling  about  getting  Stash 
on  the  Carnarvon  team. 

"Yes,  I  knew  young  Doran  at  State  pretty  well," 
said  Tom.  "I'll  put  in  a  word.  .  .  .  Ask  him  why  he 
doesn't  work  the  Razarskis  one  game.  .  .  .  And, 
Rika — do  you  s'pose  you  could  put  in  a  word  for  me 
with  \Jennika?" 

She  flushed :  "I  like  you,  Tom !"  she  began  impul- 
sively. 

"And  I  like  you,"  he  answered  a  little  fiercely;  "I'd 
love  you,"  he  added  grimly,  "if  it  wasn't  for  Stash." 

"Why  Stash?"  Marika  murmured  huskily. 

"Because  he  wants  you — he  may  not  know  it — but 
he  does!" 

"In  you  there's  just  such  a  true  friend!"  she  cried 
with  a  little  ring  in  her  voice. 

"Sometimes.  Others — I'd  sell  a  friend."  His  jaws 
knotted.  "I  can't  keep  to  my  work.  I  look  up — and 
her  face  is  there — proud  and  cruel — and  yet  crying 
inside!  When  I  try  to  shut  her  out,  I  freeze  over  to 
the  whole  world.  I  can't  go  on!" 


154     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

"I  guess  you  don't  love  her  for  the  comfort  she 
gives  you,  but  for  the  discomfort,"  Marika  spoke  half 
sadly,  half  smilingly. 

"Maybe!"  said  Tom,  biting  his  lip  over  this  thought, 
that  the  cruel  distraction  of  her  moods  had  its  fasci- 
nation for  him. 

"I  think,"  said  Marika,  flushing  with  the  courageous 
exertion  it  took,  "I  could  tell  you  how  it  is.  She 
loves  Varsh,  but  she  is  ashamed  of  him.  So  she  is 
angry  with  herself.  She  admires  you — oh,  like  we  all 
do !  And  she  is  afraid  she  would  go  to  you — because 
she  sees  she  would  then  have  all  she  dreamed  of — 
places  to  go,  and  all — And  leave  behind  Varsh  and  all 
that  bothers  her — with  this  country  place  and  Papa's 
saloon — so  common!" 

Tom's  teeth  sunk  deeper  in  his  lip;  then  suddenly 
he  took  her  hand  and  said :  "Thank  you,  Rika — I  won't 
come  back  then.  .  .  .  There — there!  I  know  what's 
good  for  me.  And  I'll  be  better  for  staying  away — • 
except  missing  you.  .  .  .  Good-bye!" 

After  he  was  gone  she  leaned  on  the  bridge.  One 
tear  fell  on  the  black  ironwork,  but  she  nudged  the 
others  back  with  her  fist.  Something  about  Tom's 
spirit  made  her  hate  useless  whimpering.  She  won- 
dered if  she  should  have  told  so  much  for  Jennika's 
rebellious  heart  .  .  out  of  her  own! 


CHAPTER  VII 


On  a  Saturday  night  in  early  August,  Stash  stood 
in  the  local  room  of  the  Tribune,  looking  down  on 


THE  GIFT  THAT  IS  GREATEST  OF  ALL    155 

Wacaser  Street,  and  trembling  a  little  with  expecta- 
tion. He  had  dashed  up  from  the  street  on  a  mere 
hazard. 

A  curt  hand  fell  on  his  shoulder;  he  looked  round 
into  Bill  Marion's  questioning  but  not  unfriendly  face. 

"Well,  Plazarski— " 

"No,  I  don't  want  anything!"  Stash  grinned:  "Just 
to  put  in  a  kick  that  you  don't  give  more  space  to  our 
team  at  the  Carnarvon." 

"You  playing  on  it?"  said  Marion,  sitting  on  the 
big  table  and  folding  his  arms. 

"Two  batteries,"  said  Stash,  "my  brother  and  I  are 
one." 

"Well  put — good!  Glad  you're  on.  I  hoped  you'd 
stay  round  and  do  something — 'stead  of  cutting  and 
running.  Why  don't  you  write  up  the  games — snappy 
— and  send  'em  in?" 

"Ho !"  Stash  laughed,  "I  couldn' !  You  see,  I  use 
pretty  bum  language!" — quoting  Andrea  Fentree, 
whose  face  and  fashion  twinkled  in  the  back  of  his 
head  as  he  spoke — "and  sometimes  it  gets  into  my 
writing." 

"What  do  we  keep  copy  readers  for?  Snappy's 
the  stuff.  I  s'pose  you  never  wrote  anything  on 
Hartranft's  paper?" 

"Once  in  a  while — but  he  had  to  put  it  into  Czech. 
I  guess  I  better  be  going." 

"Well,  that's  always  a  safe  play  around  here.  But 
come  in  and  see  me  occasionally,  Plazarski."  He  gave 
the  big  Pole  boy  a  hard  hand  grip. 

ii 

Stash  loitered  on  towards  Wacaser  ridge,  whistling 
softly.  The  second  step  in  his  rehabilitation  had 


156     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

been  taken,  and  he  felt  the  thrill  of  righting  himself 
before  the  big  smoky  town. 

Pausing  at  the  top  of  the  ridge,  he  heard  a  laugh 
that  sounded  like  Andre's,  and  Rose  Maddon's  car 
swept  under  the  street  lamp,  with  Hugh  Marantle 
driving,  and  Louise,  Andre  and  Max  Dundin  in  the 
tonneau.  He  wondered  if  they  saw  him  under  the 
trees.  He  couldn't  now  conceive  the  hardihood  to 
jump  the  running-board  of  that  machine,  as  he  had 
once  thought  little  of  doing. — Unless,  of  course,  some- 
one dared  him ! — Or — he  dared  himself — as  back  there 
under  the  Tribune  sign-globe.  .  .  .  He  made  a  ten- 
tative spring  that  way  to  follow  headlong — and 
stopped  short  in  chagrin,  realizing  it  the  kind  of  thing 
the  Polak  hoodlums  of  town  were  noted  for. 

They  had  him  set  down  for  such  a  one  now.  He 
supposed  even  Andre  and  Louise  thought  of  him  that 
way;  and  Rose  Maddon  would  probably  refuse  to  look 
at  him.  Yet  he  was  to  learn  his  mistake  a  few  days 
later. 

Coming  back  from  the  Carnarvon  plant  that  noon 
by  Koban  shore  road,  he  met  Rose  alone  in  her  car. 
She  waved  and  smiled — pulled  up  beside  him. 

"I  didn't  know  you'd  see  me,"  said  Stash,  stuffing 
dirty,  blistered  hands  in  his  black  overalls. 

"Uuuh!"  said  Rose,  making  a  gesture  of  disgust, 
"as  if  I  cared  what  they  say  or  think!  That  would 
be  just  enough  to  challenge  me." 

"Well,  that's  the  way  /  am,"  said  Stash,  "if  it's  a 
dare — why  I But  what  do  they  say  about  me?" 

"Really  want  to  know?"  Rose's  eyes  were  spark- 
ling with  irrepressible  mischief. 

"Sure,"  said  Stash,  "I'll  swallow  anything  you  make 
up!" 


THE  GIFT  THAT  IS  GREATEST  OF  ALL    157 

"Well,  guess  I  won't.  You  like  to  talk  about  your- 
self too  much.  'But  He  Doesn't  Like  to  Talk  About 
Himself !...''  She  trilled  this  in  a  golden  grained 
voice,  one  of  dallying,  staggering  sweetness,  it  seemed 
to  Stash.  Her  blue  eyes  squinted  so  tight  that  only 
frittering  little  sparks,  of  azure  seemed  escaping. 

Stash  laughed  till  his  big  jutting  nose  puckered;  and 
folded  his  arms  in  disdain  of  their  obvious  dirt  and 
scars.  He  applauded  like  a  careless  ragged  courtier 
who  had  left  Court  on  a  whim  but  still  loved  his 
Queen.  "I  dare  you  now  to  tell!" 

"You  knew  I  couldn't  swallow  a  dare!  But  I'll  dare 
you  back  sometime!  Remember!" 

"Get  it  off  your  chest!"  Stash  grinned  impudently, 
like  a  courtier  turned  rogue  on  the  road. 

"They  say  you've  fallen  to  your  right  level."  She 
shrugged  as  if  to  tone  it  down  by  a  flick  of  contempt 
for  them. 

Stash' s  jaw  hardened,  but  he  grinned  down  at  his 
black  overalls  and  said:  "I  s'pose  they  mean  this — 
and  all!" 

"And  all — principally,"  said  Rose;  "you  mustn't 
stay  out  here,  you  must  get  back — you  must  show 
them!" 

"I'm  going  to,"  said  Stash  grimly. 

"I've  just  been  out  to  see  Marika,"  said  Rose. 

"Good!"  Stash  smiled  his  one  really  enchanting 
smile,  the  one  that  showed  his  pleasure  in  anything 
done  for  Marika. 

in 

Somehow  what  Rose  had  said  reinforced  his  de- 
termination to  get  back.  Marion's  O.  K.  of  his  copy 
on  the  next  Carnarvon  game  gave  him  a  chance  to 


158     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

tell  the  big  friendly  fellow  his  ambition.  It  was 
nothing  less  than  making  the  Durand  team. 

Marion  was  not  surprised.  "I  thought  you'd  be  up 
to  that  next.  With  Remain  traded  out  the  staff's 
gone  soggy.  That's  in  your  favor.  Get  a  game  with 
them  for  the  Carnarvons  some  open  date.  That'd  give 
you  a  chance  to  bingle  in.  Expect  to  land  your 
brother  too?" 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  that."  Stash  bit  the  corner  of 
his  lip.  The  fact  that  it  might  leave  Varsh  in  the 
lurch  didn't  block  his  resolution  much.  The  azure  of 
his  enterprise  a  little  blinded  him. 

According  to  plan,  he  and  big  Bill  walked  down 
to  the  Richelieu  one  evening  to  see  Skanlock.  The 
great  man  met  Stash  with  tolerant  good  humor.  Stash 
gave  him  his  second  best  smile,  the  one  he  used  when 
something  nice  was  on  the  boards  for  Stash;  and 
gripped  the  great  one's  hand  in  his  own  huge  crunching 
grip.  Something  about  this  grip  made  Skanlock  run 
his  eye  up  and  down  the  springy  boyish  figure. 

Bill  Marion  never  talked  to  anyone  save  with  a 
take-it-or-leave-it  bluntness — even  to  "Sailor"  Skan- 
lock, manager-captain,  who  now  stretched  his  long 
waist  and  remarked: 

"We  might  put  it  through — as  you  say — 'n  open 
date.  See  what  he  can  do  against  a  real  aggregation." 

Stash's  lip  flicked  back  eagerly:  "When  a  fellow 
holds  the  Monhawks  to  five  hits " 

Skanlock  interrupted  him.  "He's  got  a  long  upper- 
works "  he  scanned  Stash  as  through  a  sextant, 

as  though  he  saw  him  miles  away — "lean  upper- 
works — He's  no  bluff-bow."  He  nodded  aside  to 
Marion;  and  then  as  a  concession  to  Stash  added,  "I 


THE  GIFT  THAT  IS  GREATEST  OF  ALL    159 

was  glad  to  see  you  trim  Merkle's  bunch — I've  had 
my  eye  on  you." 

To  say  that  Stash  was  startled  at  this  reputed  es- 
pionage would  be  too  mild;  he  was  humbled,  elated, 
proud,  chagrined  that  he  had  started  to  describe  the 
game;  in  short,  affected  exactly  as  Skanlock  intended. 
He  gave  the  great  "Sailor"  a  more  terrific  hand-grip 
than  he  knew  was  in  him,  which  Skanlock  met  with 
a  knuckle-cracker  of  his  own.  It  seemed  to  Stash 
that  a  real  thrill  of  partnership  joined  them  in  that 
moment. 

IV 

The  ragged  courtier  returned  to  court.  And  some- 
times Rose  Maddon  waved  him  a  fleeting  smile;  but 
never  stopped  him  on  the  streets  of  Durand  ...  as 
she  had  on  the  lake  shore  road. 

With  Louise  Fentree  it  was  different.  The  first 
time  she  passed  him  in  Marantle's  car  she  compelled 
that  distinguished  dark  young  fellow  to  stop.  Her 
flushed  cheeks  showed  that  she  was  doing  it  by  force 
of  will,  against  some  impediment  of  doubt  about  Stash. 
Yet  in  a  few  moments  they  were  talking  quite  at  ease. 

"Did  you  know  Andre  is  talking  about  going  to 
Art  School  in  Detroit?  Miss  Prinzep  is  planning  it. 
They  had  a  show  for  Andre  before  they  left  the  boat. 
Mr.  Diblee's  are  wonderful.  He  signs  his  water-colors 
with  a  pink  flamingo  in  the  corner.  Always  of  water 
scenes.  He's  going  to  Australia  on  a  freighter. — That 
shows  he's  no  lady's  man.  All  right! — smile  Mr. 
Hugh — but  you  know  you'd  like  to  drop  everything 
and  go  away  to  the  end  of  the  wo  rid  f" 

"That's  the  way  I'm  going  to  do,"  Stash  squinted  his 
eyes  in  malicious  good  humor.  "But  first  I'm  going 


to  show  them  in  this  town  that  I  can  climb  up  again 
after  they've  squashed  me  down." 

"There  are  quite  a  bunch  of  people  in  this  town," 
Marantle  almost  drawled,  "and  a  good  many  of  them 
would  be  shocked  to  know  they  squashed  you.  They 
never  felt  it." 

"If  you'll  just  bring  it  to  their  attention,"  Stash's 
eyes  narrowed  dangerously,  "they'll  be  glad  to  know, 
— because  they  like  to  kick  a  fellow  that's  down.  They 
say  he's  fallen  to  his  right  level." 

Suddenly  he  looked  much  older  to  Louise,  who  ex- 
claimed uneasily:  "Town  seems  to  be  getting  dirtier 
and  busier  all  the  time.  And  getting  noted  too — with 
Jim  Brerton's  car  winning  at  Indianapolis.  And  the 
coal  mines — Stash,  did  you  know  I'm  a  coal  baroness 
of  Bowling  Green." 

"No!— fine!" 

"It's  a  fake  proposition,"  said  Marantle,  urbanely 
critical,  "anything  Imbrie's  in." 

"He  does  that ! "  Louise  frowned  anxiously,  "all 

the  time!" 

"Come  to  the  big  game  Sunday,"  said  Stash,  as  he 
turned  to  leave,  "the  Marantle  men  are  going  to  beat 
Durand." 

"We'll  be  there,"  Hugh  called  back. 

The  papers  were  already  carrying  the  notice: 
DURAND  vs.  CARNARVONS.  Batteries:  Pegler  and 
Rohl — Plazarski  and  Killian.  There  was  Stash's  one 
grief:  that  Varsh's  burned  hand  would  prevent  his 
catching  the  game.  It  grieved  him,  because  he  had 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  nobility  of  loyalty.  Yet  in 
spite  of  this  he  felt  the  thrill  of  coming  victory :  he  knew 
that  he  would  win! 

At  times  he  wondered  rather  angrily  how  much  of 


THE  GIFT  THAT  IS  GREATEST  OF  ALL    161 

the  grandiose  promise  of  cities  and  shining  boulevards 
he  must  give  up  for  the  service  of  a  dim  idea  of  loy- 
alty to  his  own  people.  How  much?  .  .  .  how  much! 
His  boyhood  dreams  were  still  fixed  deep  in  his 
brain.  He  caught  clearer  visions  at  times  of  the 
splendid  emprise  he  desired.  He  saw  proud  theatres, 
and  shining  waterways,  and  avenues  trailing  a  phos- 
phorescence of  night  brilliance  like  the  wake  of  a 
lofty  ship.  His  whole  body  thrilled  to  it.  He  must 
be  on! — he  must  be  going! — to  meet  those  dark  faces 
and  encounters!  The  dark  faces  might  flash  to  his 
angrily  instead  of  friendly;  the  misty  streets  might 
clear  harsh  and  dreary.  Shadowy  eyes  might  seek  his 
with  undreamed  sweetness,  and  sad  eyes  with  terrify- 
ing distress.  .  .  .  The  dream  would  change.  .  .  .  But 
the  enterprise  would  draw  him  on  to  find  it — to  find 
it  at  last. 


BOOK  FIVE:  "BACK  TO  THE 
BOULEVARDS" 

CHAPTER  I 


If  Stash  could  have  pictured  his  arrival  in  Detroit 
with  Scarbro  and  old  Maunsell  he  might  have  hesitated 
before  the  great  venture.  Yet  he  appeared  uncon- 
scious of  being  the  head  of  the  oddest  trio  that  ever 
entered  the  Straits  City  on  a  harsh  November  day. 

On  his  right  Scarbro,  in  a  brown  skimpy  overcoat, 
carried  his  precious  libretto  and  score  under  one  arm, 
and  smoked  a  cigarette  in  a  fussy  amber  holder.  On 
the  left  swung  old  Maunsell,  sweeping,  the  world  with 
a  conquering  glance,  while  his  frowsty  iron-gray  hair 
draggled  the  false  astrakhan  collar  of  his  overcoat. 
Between  them,  Stash  lifted  his  hacked  face  to  the  fore. 
He  was  in  his  city  once  again ! 

A  little  brusque  with  the  two  old  fellows,  he  had 
the  impatient  feeling  at  times  that  they  had  tagged 
after  him.  Although  in  truth  he  had  first  been  con- 
vinced of  the  merits  of  Scarbro's  "Shaneen"  and  had 
promised  to  make  the  venture  with  him  in  Detroit — 
where  with  McCandlish's  help  it  might  have  a  decent 
opening.  But  Scarbro  had  foolishly  leaked  to  old 
Maunsell,  who  had  been  in  the  storehouse  for  years, 
and  who  came  fuming  along  with  his  fruity  ingratia- 

163 


164      STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

tion — his  windy  Wolf  Tone  airs — his  endless  prating 
of  The  Irish  Drama.  He  had  been  tolerated  at  the 
Savoy  for  the  sake  of  his  daughter — little  Mar. 

Stash  had  made  several  asides  to  Scarbro  with  care- 
less wink  about  being  "loaded  down" — "lots  of  bag- 
gage," et  cetera ;  but  these  had  glanced  harmlessly  from 
Maunsell's  surface.  Setting  foot  in  the  lake  city  gal- 
vanized him  into  reminiscence — of  Chauncey  Olcott, 
Andrew  Mack  and  John  McCullough.  He  even  told 
of  McCullough's  terrible,  insane  breakdown  in  a  De- 
troit theatre  with  all  the  implication  of  having  been 
an  eye-witness!  Scarbro  listened  fretfully;  but  Stash 
was  blunt  enough  in  his : 

"Yes,  you  saw  that  in  the  Dramatic  Curtain ! — come 
on,  we've  got  to  get  along  if  we're  going  to  find  that 
old  cheap  hotel  you  remember!" 

ii 

He  was  glad  to  get  the  two  installed  in  the  Griffin 
House;  and  with  a  shake  of  his  shoulders  started  out 
across  the  city  to  find  McCandlish.  He  found  him 
leaving  the  old  Wayne  Hotel,  whose  baffling,  dull  red 
front  loomed  into  fitting  tonality  with  the  dull  gray 
day. 

The  big  man  drew  him  into  the  lounge  and  looked 
him  up  and  down. 

"Well-well!  Bahoo-hum-hum !  Well,  I  don't  deny 
it's  a  fine  surprise,  lad!  I  got  your  letter,  but  didn't 
suppose  you'd  be  actin'  this  quick.  But  fine  I  knew 
you  would — or  ought  to! — after  what  Miss  Andrea 
told  me  about  your  wild  time  in  the  baseball.  Why 
don't  you  stick  to  that  now?" 

"On  account  of  winter!"     Stash  smiled;  "season's 


"BACK  TO  THE  BOULEVARDS"         165 

over !"  He  could  not  explain  that  baseball  did  not  fill 
his  dream  of  raging  glory.  His  cheeks  were  flushed 
from  the  stinging  November  air,  his  dark  eyes  shone. 
He  had  changed  even  in  the  last  few  months :  a  new 
power  had  been  added  to  him,  the  result  perhaps  of 
three  months  of  extraordinary  physical  success.  This 
bursting  aggressiveness  had  been  somewhat  the  cause 
of  his  leaving  Durand.  .  .  . 

Sartos  had  been  caught  appropriating  ad  collections, 
and  Hartranft  had  publicly  scored  him  for  libeling 
Stash.  The  vindictive  little  man  had  then  resorted 
to  Jastrow's  saloon,  and  worked  upon  the  feelings  of 
old  Jastrow,  who  had  hated  the  name  of  Plazarski 
ever  since  Jan  had  killed  his  son.  The  Jastrow  gang 
had  caught  Stash  and  trussed  him  in  the  deserted  Ko- 
ban  Lake  church  one  night,  leaving  him  with  the 
promise  that  they  would  fire  it.  Out  of  this  had  come 
the  Saturday  night  fights  between  the  Jastrow  gang 
and  the  Carnarvon  roughs — whom  Varsh  had  organ- 
ized for  vengeance.  Fentree  had  begged  Stash  to  quit 
the  Carnarvon  gang,  had  urged  him  to  leave  town  if 
there  was  no  other  way  of  courageously  avoiding  it. 
Marika  too  had  begged  him  to  give  it  up.  And  here 
he  was :  without  doubt  a  different  fellow  from  the  boy 
who  had  left  the  city  a  few  short  months  before. 

McCandlish  agreed  to  be  over  in  the  evening  to  in- 
terview Scarbro. 

"Understand,"  he  said,  "I'm  makin'  no  promises. 
...  If  some  good  bookin'  turns  up,  I'm  sort  of  ob- 
ligated to  that  friendly  old  fellow — myself — to  sign 
on.  .  .  .  Unless  I  took  a  strong  fancy  to  this  little 
show  you're  pullin'  together.  But  it's  an  off-chancy 
game.  That  name,  the  Tunnel,  never  did  the  house 
any  good — soundin'  like  a  beer-cellar  an'  all.  It  smells 


166      STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

musty.  I  expect  it's  the  center  for  the  rat  conventions 
of  the  city.  If  I  promoted  it  as  such,  an'  collected 
on  'em,  I  expect  I'd  be  doin'  better  by  myself — if  it 
only  brought  a  bushel  of  old  cheese  rinds — than  by 
goin'  in  on  this  project  of  yours.  .  .  .  Heh?"  His 
watery  gray  eyes  beetled  out  at  Stash  lugubriously. 

Stash's  brow  was  knotting  itself  into  pinkish  wind- 
bitten  bunches. 

McCandlish  suddenly  laughed  and  clapped  him  on 
the  shoulder  thunderously :  "But  fine  I  know  how  you 
take  to  that — a  kid!  I'm  just  an  old  kid  myself.  I 
have  a  lot  of  confidence  in  your  drive  and  go.  You've 
all  the  fortune  favor  of  youth,  and  you'll  end  by  havin' 
your  way  with  me — an  old  mush!  .  .  .  Bahoo! — past 
seven,  then."  He  enveloped  Stash's  big  hand  in  his 
burly  bear  paw. 

in 

Stash  returned  to  the  Griffin  House  and  found  Scar- 
bro  and  Maunsell  arguing  in  a  lobby  muggy  with  steam 
heat  and  sticky  as  to  leather  chairs.  It  appeared  that 
they  were  disputing  pettishly  merely  to  stifle  depres- 
sion, for  they  were  pathetically  happy  to  have  Stash 
between  them  again  with  his  load  of  news. 

Against  their  protest  Stash  started  out  to  find  Le« 
Luders.  He  had  bought  himself  a  little  fruit  on 
the  train;  and,  too  impatient  to  bother  with  further 
lunch,  he  swung  on  through  streets  of  paper-box  fac- 
tories and  seed  houses,  with  lonely  lost  electric  glim- 
mers suggesting  wintry  comfort  high  in  their  lofts 
of  gloom;  on  through  vague  drifts  of  sweetish  coal 
reek  and  spates  of  rainy  wind.  And  all  through  him 
was  the  thrill  of  being  here  again — in  his  City — of  oh 
so  many  boyish  dreams  and  memories.  He  walked 


"BACK  TO  THE  BOULEVARDS"         167 

out  of  his  way  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  gray  stormy 
straits  and  saw  the  black  catafalque  of  a  Grand  Trunk 
car  ferry  surging  its  way  across  to  Canada. 

He  found  Lee  Luders  in  Kretuski's;  and  that  cool 
sufficient  fellow  greeted  Stash  warmly,  submitting  both 
hands  to  Stash's  terrible  grip. 

"Well,  old  Sheenie!"  said  Stash  endearingly. 

"I  knew  you  would  come  yet,  Blockhead!"  The 
bland  Luders  had  never  allowed  himself  a  more  af- 
fectionate greeting  for  Stash. 

"Well,  I  got  the  old  fellow  that  wrote  the  jingle 
for  'She  Doesn't  Like  to  Talk  About  Herself.'  With 
the  music  show  he's  got  the  book  and  stuff  for,  there's 
a  great  chance.  Especially  if  I  line  up  McCandlish 
the  way  I  hope.  He's  going  to  be  over  at  the  Griff 
to-night,  and  we're  going  to  talk  it  all  over.  You " 

"No,  I  won't  be  there."  Luders  shook  his  head, 
smiling  wisely;  and  proceeded  to  explain  the  superior 
craft  of  coming  in  later  as  the  man  ivho  has  to  be 
sent  for. 

"I  see — all  right! — I  see!"  Stash  grinned  at  this 
diplomacy  which  seemed  a  kind  of  clever  monkey- 
shines  to  him. 

"What's  the  name  of  the  book?" 

"Slwneen,"  said  Stash,  "Irish  stuff." 

"Have  You  Seen  Shaneen?" — Luders  whirled  aside 
with  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  rolled  his  hard  sapphire 
eyes  upward  as  though  gazing  at  a  billboard  legend: 
"Have  You  Seen  Shaneen?" — with  all  the  comic 
aplomb  of  actual  vision. 

He  turned  back  to  Stash :  "That's  fine,  boy ;  and  I'm 
ready  with  a  bunch  of  idears  just  like  I  told  you;  I've 
got  a  back-stage  card  for  Frontenac  and  Majestic  and 
I  havn't  been  wasting  it;  but  yet  y'see  I  can't  come 


168      STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

to-night  like  I  was  crazy  to  be  on,  so  you  won't  mind 
I  hope." 

"Not  a  bit!"  Stash  grinned;  "I'll  remember  how  to 
bring  your  name  in — like  a  fellow  we  might  get  if 
he  hadn't  too  many  other  schemes  on  hand." 

"That's  the  idear!"  Luders  declared,  "only  that's 
exactly  true  about  all  my  schemes!" 


IV 

Stash  had  looked  up  the  Andrew  Fentree  address 
before  he  left  Kretuski's.  Andre  could  hardly  be- 
lieve her  eyes  when  she  saw  him,  and  said  she  would 
have  to  turn  on  the  hall  light  to  make  sure. 

"It  needs  to  be  on  anyway.  .  .  ."  She  found  her 
voice  trembling  out  of  control.  He  seemed  so  dif- 
ferent— bigger ! 

But  they  were  soon  quite  their  old  selves.  Stash 
lit  the  fire  in  the  grate,  which  soon  recalled  the  room 
from  its  lofty  Italian  coolness,  and  made  the  windy 
outside  with  its  low  gray  roaring  seem  a  distant  far- 
away world. 

"Have  you  seen  your  mother?"  Andre  asked  dur- 
ing a  pause. 

"She's  in  Buffalo  now,"  said  Stash,  his  face  sober- 
ing and  hardening;  "she  didn't  want  me  to  come  around 
here — so,  of  course  .  .  .  Anyway,  she's  moved." 

"You're  going  to  stay  to  dinner,"  said  Andre, 
swinging  quickly  to  a  new  drift. 

"Well,  you  see "  Stash  objected,  "I've  got  a 

couple  old  hams  on  my  hands  that  might  run  away ! — 
and  get  lost  down  Hamtramck  way.  Old  Maunsell 
talks  as  if  he'd  been  here  lots  before — but  he  leaked  out 
that  he'd  been  in  New  York  on  the  same  dates!"  He 


"BACK  TO  THE  BOULEVARDS"         169 

laughed  again,  and  in  rising  spirits  consented  to  stay 
to  dinner. 

He  found  the  company  jolly  enough.  Uncle  Andrew 
refrained  from  his  book — which  was  always  just  under 
the  tablecloth  fringe  for  choice  nipping.  Archie  and 
Noll  Fentree  told  the  gossip  from  the  automobile  shops. 

Stash,  in  his  turn,  described  the  hypothetical  tragedy 
of  "two  old  hams  lost  down  Hamtramck."  He  told 
the  plans  for  Shaneen.  He  imitated  Luders  staring 
at  an  imaginary  broadside — "Have  you  seen  Shaneen?" 
— Then  broke  off  abruptly,  his  eyebrows  lifted  in 

pleased  astonishment:  "Well !  How's  that  for 

a  name  for  the  show?  Have  You  Seen  Shaneen f 
Gives  you  something  to  wonder  about." 

Andre  took  exception,  urging  that  Shaneen  was  a 
better  bull's-eye.  "The  other  is  more  cheap  and 
catchy." 

"You've  said  just  what  we  want!"  Stash  laughed. 
"Besides,  if  you  saw  just  Shaneen  you  might  think  it 
was  something  to  polish  your  shoes." 

"Or  a  new  kind  of  peau  de  sols,"  added  Aunt  Elaine. 

Stash  apologized  for  leaving  early,  and  hurried  off 
to  the  humid  lobby  of  the  Griffin.  McCandlish  arrived 
but  a  little  later;  and  Scarbro  fidgeted  around  until 
he  got  them  up  to  his  room,  where  the  precious  libretto 
and  score  were  hidden  under  his  mattress. 


After  McCandlish  had  listened  to  Scarbro's  fussy 
details  of  how  long  he  had  worked  on  his  opus,  he 
interrupted  good-naturedly :  "But  of  course  I'll  have  to 
read  your  book — I  better  be  takin'  it  home  with  me 
to-night." 


170      STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

Scarbro  immediately  became  distraught. 

"Havn't  you  two  copies?"   Stash  asked  brusquely. 

Scarbro's  lips  puttered  in  exasperation :  "Of  course 
not,"  he  muttered,  "I  had  thought  that — I  could 
read  it,  you  see — sketch  it  over " 

McCandlish  threw  up  his  hands  in  mock  alarm : 
"I'd  get  a  better  opinion  of  it  if  you  didn't.  I  go 
to  sleep  when  people  read  to  me — fact !  Are  there  any 
snappy  lines  in  it,  heh?" 

''There  aren't!"  said  Scarbro  doggedly,  "I've  heard 
enough  of  that  kind  of  stuff;  this'  a  clean  little  Irish 
theme." 

"Bahoo-bahoo !"  chuckled  McCandlish,  shaking  the 
great  rondure  of  his  vest,  "misunderstanding! — I 
meant  has  it  snap  and  fire.  I  want  the  music  sparklin' 
and  fresh  too.  I'm  a  good  judge.  Let's  see — there's 
a  piano  down  at  the  Tunnel — Princess,  I  mean.  But 
the  cold  will  be  a  nuisance." 

"Not  when  I'm  playing!"  muttered  Scarbro  fever- 
ishly, "I  never  notice  it!" 

"To  me — no!"  cried  Maunsell,  loosing  a  thunder- 
bolt of  reassurance,  "no  nuisance  at  all!" 

"But  how  about  me! — I'd  like  to  know!"  McCand- 
lish burst  out  explosively,  "listening  back  in  Row  K — 
K  for  cold!" 

He  glared  about  him  with  his  watery,  jocose  gray 
eyes  till  Scarbro  and  the  old  actor  expressed  a  certain 
humility,  and  then  burst  into  hoarse  asthmatic  rumb- 
lings of  laughter. 

VI 

The  next  afternoon  McCandlish  came  over  and  re- 
lieved the  feverish  Scarbro  by  showing  the  "Shaneen" 
book  intact.  They  foregathered  again  in  the  old 


"BACK  TO  THE  BOULEVARDS"          171 

musician's  room,  where  he  sat  down  trembling  on  his 
bed. 

"Wel-1-1!"  rumbled  the  Scotsman,  "it  brings  a  kin' 
of  breath  off  the  heather — or  whatever  you  have  over 
there.  So  far  we'll  call  it  O.  K.  Then,  after  an  ex- 
citin'  start,  you  get  to  missing  something — betimes. 
I  don't  know  just  what's  the  matter — but  from  my 
readin'  of  Sir  Walter's  plots  ...  I  have  them  all  in 
a  book  that  saves  readin'  the  novels  ...  I  can  be 
sure  of  something  wrong.  ..." 

Scarbro  was  working  his  fingers  on  the  counter- 
pane ;  and  it  looked  to  Stash  as  if  tears  of  chagrin  were 
creeping  into  his  eyes.  Maunsell,  his  loose  lavender 
lips  working,  looked  helplessly  to  Stash. 

Stash  sprang  upright. 

"I  know  what  it  wants!"  He  claimed  their  atten- 
tion abruptly:  "You  know  how  Shaneen  is  named 
after  her  dead  brother!  I'd  have  her  dressin'  up  like 
a  boy  then  for  mischief  and  to  spy  on  the  King's 
Revenue  men.  Now  the  jolly  old  smuggler  that's  an 
old  friend  of  Captain  Murtree — he  carries  her  off  to 
a  secret  spot,  thinkin'  to  help  Murtree  that  loves  her. 
All  right !  But  when  Murtree  hears  she's  been  carried 
off  he's  scared  to  death! 

"And  all  the  smugglin'  town  is  yammerin'  round 
sly  like :  'Have  you  seen  Shaneen  ?'  They  won't  tell 
Murtree  she's  safe  at  Secret  Rock! — cause  Murtree, 
bein'  English  captain,  has  got  to  support  the  Revenu- 
ers,  and  they're  afraid  he'll  bam  the  old  smuggler 
boy!  .  .  .  But  the  old  smuggler  boy's  his  secret 
friend,  and  tells  young  Murtree  where  to  find  the  girl 
and  cut  away!  That's  what  we  needed  to  dress  out 
the  third  act.  You  can  see  now  that  it  was  coming!" 

"Now  you  see  it  you  can!"  laughed  McCandlish. 


172      STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

Stash  hurled  a  warning  look  at  Scarbro  and  dashed 
on:  "I  wasn't  worried — knew  we'd  have  to  do  a  lot 
of  cutting!" 

Scarbro  squirmed  helplessly  under  Stash's  scalpel. 

"May  have  to  do  a  lot  of  cutting!  But  it's  a  good 

play!  /  saw.  And  you "  turning  to  McCandlish 

— "saw  it  too! — Or  you'd  a'  dropped  it  dead,  wouldn' 
you !  .  .  .  And  when  you  hear  the  songs  you'll  think 
you've  touched  something  hot !" 

His  air  of  triumph  flushed  McCandlish  with  con- 
tagious pleasure :  "I  wouldn't  say  you  weren't  precisely 
right!  We'll  be  hearin'  the  songs  to-morrow  at  one. 
If  they'll  be  anyways  near  as  good  as  the  play  .  .  . 
now  you've  got  the  kink  tripped  out.  .  .  .  Want  to 
warn  you! — I'm  a  judge  of  music.  ...  I  feel  it  first 
right  here !" — tapping  the  solar  ganglia  under  his  great 
vest.  "Hold  on  though!  .  .  .  we'll  make  it  earlier — 
at  ten — and  I'll  have  you  to  lunch  with  me  if  you 
care." 

There  was  such  a  rush  of  approval  in  the  big  man's 
words — stemmed  so  suddenly  by  abortive  cautions — 
that  Scarbro  started  and  fluttered  at  every  word. 

After  McCandlish  was  gone,  the  old  leader  caught 
Stash  back  to  mutter  his  trembling  thanks :  "In  a  little 
while  Slason  would  have  been  trying  to  shove  me  off. 
.  .  .  And  there's  nothing  else  I  can  do !  .  .  ." 

"Cheer  up!"  Stash  patted  his  shoulder  protectively, 
"we've  got  'em  on  the  run." 

In  the  lobby  they  met  Maunsell  with  head  erectly 
leonine  and  a  fresh  cigar  pursed  in  his  expressive 
heliotrope  lips. 


"BACK  TO  THE  BOULEVARDS"          173 
CHAPTER  II 


The  morning  turned  out  bright  and  blowing.  An 
amber  autumn  sunshine  patched  the  pavement  at  the 
Woodward  entrance  of  the  Princess  Playhouse.  Mc- 
Candlish  blustered  them  into  the  echoing  arcade  tunnel 
that  led  half  a  block  deep  to  the  theatre. 

Whether  the  singing  beauty  of  the  "Shaneen"  songs 
would  get  across  to  McCandlish  was  a  worry  that 
beset  Scarbro  the  moment  they  started  out. 

The  first  attempt  proved  the  need  of  some  decisive 
intervention — human  or  divine — to  win  a  word  of 
favor  from  the  grunting  fellow  stuffed  in  his  cold 
corner  of  Row  K.  The  rose-geranium  mustiness 
charged  Stash  with  a  queer  echoing  feeling,  as  if  some 
haunt  of  his  old  self  must  hover  in  the  gallery  corner 
where  he  and  Lee  used  to  sit,  and  where  now  only  sad 
gray  shadows  met  his  eye.  .  .  .  The  big  prospect 
seemed  decaying  into  a  musty  memory — in  company 
with  dead  exaltations  that  haunt  old  theatres  on  raw 
November  mornings.  Scarbro's  chagrin,  as  he  swung 
out  from  the  piano  and  waited,  was  more  than  Stash 
could  stand.  He  sprang  down  from  the  chairback 
where  he  had  been  sitting. 

"See  here!"  his  voice  startled  the  echoes,  "isn't 
the  next  one  Murtree's  song  to  Shaneen?  I'll  sing 
that  if  you  want  me  to.  If  it  won't  scare  Mac  out!" 

McCandlish  toppled  both  hands  through  the  air  in 
a  "do  anything  you  please  to  me"  gesture. 

Maunsell  pulled  his  veined  hands  out  of  his  over- 
coat to  spatter  them  and  mutter  "Bravo!" 


174      STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

So  Stash  squared  off  beside  the  piano,  determined 
to  gather  the  wreck  in  his  arms,  if  wreck  it  must  be, 
and  hurl  it  at  the  grumpy  old  turtle  in  Row  K. 

"Play  your  damn  best,  Scar!"  he  muttered  aside; 
and  struck  into  the  chorus : 

"Just  as  ye've  seen  the  waves,  Shaneen, 
Curl  up  on  Bantry's  shore — 
That's  just  how  dear  your  eyes  are  seen, 
The  lashes  curlin'  o'er ! 
More  like  the  waves  of  peacock  sheen 
Stealin'  to  Bantry's  shore — 
That's  just  the  way  your  eyes  ain't  green — 
But  more  like  blue,  Asthore ! 
That's  just  the  way  your  eyes  trick  mine! 
Shaneen — Shaneen  Asthore !" 

In  the  sudden  silence  that  followed,  McCandlish 
shook  himself  up  enough  to  grunt :  "Well,  that  ought 
to  be  gettin'  her  betimes !" 

"That's  nothing!"  Stash  swaggered,  "wait  till  you 
hear  the  Smuggler's  Chorus !" 

For  the  Smuggler's  Chorus  he  sprang  to  the  stage 
apron,  and  tromped  it  out.  Staggering,  stamping,  rock- 
ing, rolling,  he  made  a  whole  chorus  of  himself. 

"And  now  I  tell  you  something's  happening,"  said 
McCandlish,  lumbering  out  of  his  chair  and  down  the 
ramp. 

Stash  whirled  into  "Fancy  Goods." 

"Oh,  niver  iny  smugglin'  is  there 

Round  about  here — 
But  maybe  in  the  fancy  line ! 
There  was  a  poor  lad  that  went 

A  talkin'  fine — 

How  smugglin'  niver-iver  paid, 
But  sorry  a  smile  did  he  get,  poor  lad, 
Till  he  wint  in  the  conthraband  trade! 

(Business  of  kissing) 
Engagin'  in  the  conthraband  trade !" 


"BACK  TO  THE  BOULEVARDS"          175 

By  the  time  Stash  had  drawn  the  last  corkscrew 
kiss  and  done  a  dainty  bend  and  fade-away,  McCand- 
lish  was  shaking  with  laughter.  He  cleared  his 
throat  with  a  gigantic  Bahoo!  and  paced  softly  up  and 
down  while  Scarbro  played  the  next  two  songs. 

They  concluded  with  undimmed  esprit,  and  Scarbro 
turning  round  lit  a  cigarette,  sending  a  spiral  thread 
of  blue  aloft. 

"Well,  sir!"  McCandlish  cleared  his  throat.  This 
was  what  they  were  waiting  for — tensely.  "It  surely 
brings  a  breath  off  the  heather — or,  as  I  was  sayin' — 
whatever  vegetation  they  have  over  there — blackthorns 
and  gallus-trees.  ...  I  won't  sign  a  contract  till  I 
learn  more  what  it's  goin'  to  set  me  back  to  get  a 
company,  director  an'  all.  .  .  .  But  I  will  say  this. 
.  .  .  That  you  thawed  me  out  something  fine.  .  .  . 
Or  maybe  it  was  the  sun  workin'  up.  ...  I  doubt  it's 
blowin'  like  it  was.  .  .  .  Jondui's  ain't  far  down  .  .  . 
where  the  roast  beef  tree  grows  strong." 

Maunsell  ran  his  bluish-pebbled  tongue  around 
his  chapped  lips;  and  they  pushed  out  into  the  bright 
bluster  of  the  autumn  noon. 


ii 

The  savors  of  steaks  and  colored  sauces  made  the 
window  bay  at  Jondui's  a  fair  roadstead  just  off  the 
bright  street. 

"And  whom  you  been  thinkin'  of  for  lady  lead?" 
McCandlish  turned  to  Scarbro. 

Scarbro  blinked  and  muttered  an  exalted  name. 

"Thunder!"  breathed  Stash,  "she  ranks  the  whole 
flutter!  Why  don't  you  ask  for  Mitzi — to  pass  pro- 
grams !" 


176     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

A  grievous  gaze  from  Maunsell  accused  Scarbro  of 
rankest  desertion. 

"How  about  little  Mar's  chance?"  said  Stash,  "she 
that  has  the  regular  Madge  Stair  sparkle  in  her  eye. 
If  she  had  a  try-out  she'd  make  the  chorus  anyway. 
And  look  how  she'd  wipe  up  Shaneen's  boy  appear- 
ance ! — that  way  she  slunks  around  just  like  a  fellow !" 

'7  see!"  sighed  Maunsell  in  piteous  irony,  "I  see — 
we  had  no  chance — no  opening  from  the  start."  He 
bowed  his  head  like  a  ruined  mastiff. 

"Lord!"  Stash  cried,  "you're  just  the  shape  for 
the  old  top  that's  always  workin'  up  to  a  fine  speech 
on  himself  and  Ireland  when  Shaneen  taps  him  on  the 
shoulder — for  fear  he'll  give  away  the  secret.  I've 
been  seeing  that  all  along !" 

Maunsell's  mouth  assumed  a  dubious  degree  of 
complacence. 

It  amused  and  somehow  pleased  McCandlish  to  see 
Stash  assume  the  weight  of  these  old  chaps'  dejection 
and  a  responsibility  for  them.  He  told  himself  with 
pride  that  the  big  lad  had  a  big  heart  in  him. 

V 

III 

Before  the  luncheon  was  over  Stash  had  let  out  his 
arm  in  the  matter  of  Lee  Luders  in  such  fashion  that 
had  that  blandly  assured  fellow  been  by  he  must  have 
exclaimed:  "Excellent  for  you,  boy!" 

Stash  hurried  back  to  the  Griffin  to  help  Scarbro 
work  over  the  book ;  and  the  next  evening  took  Luders 
to  dine  with  McCandlish  at  the  Tiller  Grill. 

"Well,"  the  Scotsman  gruffed,  after  they  were 
seated,  "the  lad  tells  me  you've  been  dead-heading  in 


"BACK  TO  THE  BOULEVARDS"          177 

back  at  the  Frontenac,  learnin'  the  show  business. 
What  do  you  know?" 

Luders — to  Stash's  exultation — was  not  in  the  least 
disconcerted. 

"With  just  this  kind  of  play  in  view  I  been  in  the 
habit  of  attending  the  Polish  and  Irish  picnics.  I  never 
miss  the  points  of  the  best  dancers  seen  there ;  an'  even 
list  'em,  so  that  from  Clan  Na  Gael  an'  County  Mayo 
an'  such  I  have  collected  a  list  that  will  be  dressin' 
the  choruses  of  to-morrow.  So  you  see  we  get  in 
before  the  cream  is  skimmed,  so  that  for  your  present 
venture  which  is  Irish  you  couldn't  make  a  mistake 
in  lookin'  up  these  girls,  a  list  of  which  I  have  here; 
and  on  your  four-sheets,  'A  Chorus  with  Smiles  as 
Irish  as  Their  Names'  wouldn't  look  so  bad." 

He  was  so  blandly  brazen  in  the  wink  he  gave  Stash, 
as  he  handed  over  the  list  of  names,  so  amazingly 
serene  in  his  conjuration  of  chorus  recruits,  that  Mc- 
Candlish  had  to  swallow  one  or  two  bahoos  before  he 
could  recapture  his  usual  phlegm. 

"Take  my  word,"  said  Luders,  "it  would  be  a 
pleasure  simply  with  such  material  to  whip  'em  into 
shape." 

"I  notice  y'  havn't  begrudged  slippin'  in  a  few 
French  names  too — Flaherty  and  McCormick?" 

Luders  dismissed  the  big  man's  joking  .attempt  with 
a  wave  of  the  hand :  "Those  two  McCormicks  are 
sisters  and  smart  little  girls  enough,  that  I  have  talked 
to  them  and  they  are  really  crazy,  y'know,  to  dance 
on  the  stage." 

"That's  not  a  bad  idea  either  about  'smiles  as  Irish 
as  their  names.'  " — In  this  fashion  McCandlish  com- 
mitted himself  gruffly  in  Luders'  favor;  and  later  ac- 
cepted his  suggestion  that  a  New  York  director  of 


178     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

Corporal  Maggard's  reputation  be  hired  to  cast  the 
play  and  give  it  a  fly-by-night  supervision. 

When  they  had  parted  from  the  big  man  and 
watched  his  burly  figure  diminish  under  the  blue 
pleached  branches  of  Grand  Circus  Park,  Stash  mut- 
tered: "Why  didn'  you  give  ol'  Mac  his  laugh  on  that 
French-Irish  joke?" 

"Whatever  far-off  circuit  they're  enjoyin'  that  joke 

on "  Luders  raised  a  red  flare  to  his  cigarette — • 

"on  Mars  perhaps,  I'd  say  a  fellow  ought  to  be  for- 
given for  not  chokin'  himself  over  it  here;  besides 
that  I  learned  long  ago,  my  boy,  that  it  raises  a  man's 
respect  if  you  don't  choke  over  his  stale  old  dog- 
biscuit  jokes,  because  that  you're  too  blame  busy  or 
don't  have  to  'take  a  bend'  every  time  he  snaps  his 
finger." 

Looking  at  Lee's  serene  rounded  cheek,  Stash  had 
to  chuckle,  as  one  chuckles  at  the  impudence  of  a 
favorite  dog. 

CHAPTER  III 


The  triumph  of  the  days  when  the  first  four-sheets 
came  out  and  "HAVE  YOU  SEEN  SHANEEN  ?"  bloomed  on 
Chandos  and  Jefferson  billboards  was  submerged  in  the 
frenzy  and  desperation  of  the  last  week. 

Under  McCandlish's  guidance  Stash  became  busi- 
ness manager.  And  in  addition,  he  was  held  to  help 
the  electrician  with  his  light  cue  schedule,  to  remedy  a 
squeaky  curtain  block,  or  again  to  fill  in  for  "Car- 
mody."  His  eyes  grew  bloodshot  and  his  face  knotted. 


"BACK  TO  THE  BOULEVARDS"         179 

One  night  Andre  caught  him  and  tore  him  away  to  the 
house  on  Chandos  Street  for  dinner. 

There  he  told  them  in  excited  rush  of  the  fine  "sell- 
out," of  old  Maunsell's  dash  and  go  as  the  ancient 
sweetheart,  of  SilUman  &  Shott's  offer  to  sign  them 
on  for  thirty  weeks'  booking  if  the  show  proved  a 
draw.  Even  Uncle  Andrew  let  his  book  slip  to  the 
floor. 

"And  to  think  it  all  started  that  drizzly  November 
day  that  you  came  here!"  said  Andre. 

"It  wasn't  drizzly !"  Stash  laughed,  "you're  throwin' 
in  contrast.  It  was  a  fine  old  day.  The  big  thing 
was  that  old  Scar  built  a  winner  somehow.  He 
couldn't  tell  yoiu  how  he  did  it !  Then  Dimmick  grilled 
'em  to  a  Broadway  curve — with  old  Lee  defending  'em 
till  the  girls  think  he's  so  sweet.  And  then  he 
works  Dimmick's  own  tricks — pianissimo  at  first,  and 
then  harder,  harder!  .  .  .  Oh,  they  don't  know  all  his 
smartness !" 

Before  he  left  Stash  stopped  at  the  piano,  and  pois- 
ing his  big  winter-reddened  hands  above  the  white 
keys — struck  a  carnival  chord  full  of  the  mellowness 
of  gay  good-bye — and  something  of  its  sadness  too. 
— The  touch  of  Irish  tristesse  just  deep  enough  to 
make  the  flashing  cheer  of  finale  linger  on  with  a  pull 
of  wistful  longing. 

"That's  the  last  lyric— To  the  Lave  of  You.'  "    He 
turned  away.     "Renwick's  putting  'em  out  after  New  ,, 
Year's.     Peachy  covers — you  know   the   fellow  de- 
signed 'em,  Andre — Janvier,  eh?" 

He  laughed ;  shook  hands ;  and  hurried  out  into  the 
blue  December  night — full  of  dying  holiday  rumors 
like  the  final  lyric  of  "Have  You  Seen  Shaneen?" 


II 


But  Stash's  troubles  weren't  all  over.  The  evening 
of  the  opening  he  met  Scarbro  at  a  Portage  Street 
chop-house  not  far  from  the  theatre,  where  the  old 
fellow  had  invited  him  for  dinner.  His  huddled  brown 
figure  had  haunted  the  darkness  of  the  Princess  house 
for  weeks;  for  the  last  month  he  had  been  shivering 
and  sniffing  with  a  cold  which  he  had  treated  with 
nothing  but  "rock  and  rye,"  finding  himself  now  on 
the  eve  of  his  play  in  a  feverish  and  distraught  con- 
dition. 

Beginning  with  a  trembling  attempt  to  tell  all  that 
this  night  of  his  dreams  meant  to  him,  he  worked 
excitedly  onward  to  the  astounding  declaration  that 
he  had  stolen  thej>lay. 

"You  know  how  I  work  I  You've  seen  me  get 
Kittl  and  Komzhak  songs  around  me  and  work  out 
a  new  one.  Just  the  same  with  this.  .  .  .  Stolen  every 
one!  To-morrow  .  .  ."  his  voice  shook  with  appre- 
hension, "they'll  point  out  where  I  got  this  and  that 
one — 'Moonlight  Lad'  from  Balfe — 'Fancy  Goods' 
from  Herbert — I'll  be — I'll  be  exposed — there'll  be 
suits !  I— I'm  finished ! " 

Stash  was  half  angry,  half  aghast:  "Nonsense! 
You  know — before  a  song's  hardly  out — the  minute 
professional  copies  get  around — the  first  thing  we  say 
is — 'That's  a  pretty  good  crib  from  Dvllikins  or  what- 
ever!' That  junk's  always  goin'  the  circuit!  Cheer 
up!"  He  leaned  forward  to  pat  the  shaky  old  shoul- 
der. 

But  some  frustrated  romantic  spirit  buried  in  the 
dreary  pit  of  the  man,  as  he  had  been  buried  in  the 


"BACK  TO  THE  BOULEVARDS"         181 

dingy  Savoy  pit,  had  worked  out  on  this  the  great 
dramatic  night  of  his  life  and  demanded  a  tragic  ac- 
cent. 

"It's  all  over  to-morrow!  You  ought  to  see! — I 
stole  from  you!  You  helped  me  vamp  up  the  lyrics. 
/ — I've  tried  to  keep  the  feeling  down! — but  now " 

"O'  course !  O'  course !"  Stash  muttered  coaxingly. 
"I  know,  I  know  how  it  is,  Scarry!  .  .  .  All  the 
trouble  is,"  and  his  eyes  gleamed  black,  "it's  going  to 
be  all  so  wonderful  grand  a  thing,  Scarry,  that  you 
can'  believe  it's  coming  all  to  you!" — He  sprang  up 
and  pressed  a  hand  gently  on  the  trembling  shoulders. 
"See — Scar?  .  .  .  That's  the  way  it  seems  to  me! 
And  we've  both  got  the  jimmies  hard!  But  we  can' 
bother  about  it  just  now!  You  see  it's  getting  seven- 
fifteen  already." 

He  helped  him  into  his  things,  muttering  in  gentle 
gruffness  little  tags  from  the  play :  "  'There — now 
easy  on  with  the  old  wrap-rascal !'  " — smoothing  his 
arms  into  the  sleeves  of  his  skimpy,  scorched  looking 
overcoat. 

Out  under  the  frosty  sky  then,  with  its  countless 
sparkling  stars,  to  the  rendezvous  of  the  old  leader's 
dreams. 

CHAPTER  IV 


The  ground  sheets  were  rumbling  out  with  a 
tremor  like  distant  cannon  limbers  when  Stash 
reached  back  stage.  He  swung  onto  a  trestle  of  the 
Smuggler's  Cave  set,  and  whistled  softly,  eerily,  as  he 


182     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

had  in  the  old  gallery  nights.  Ah,  what  a  thrill  now 
in  those  old  memories! 

Presently  McCandlish  came  in  with  the  older  Mc- 
Cormick  sister  and  the  twins,  Clare  and  Dollie,  all 
heavily  wrapped  against  the  frosty  air. 

The  burly  fellow  swung  about  beside  Stash:  "The 
old  man  looks  bumbazed  to-night."  In  truth  Scarbro 
did  look  lost  and  bewildered. 

"I'm  going  to  try  to  get  him  down  by  the  furnace!" 
Stash  sprang  up  and  swung  across. 

Most  of  the  girls  had  arrived  before  seven-fifteen. 
The  loft  echoed  with  their  laughing  calls. 

Stash  came  back  and  perched  on  a  trestle  beside 
little  Mar.  Her  forehead  was  puckered  with  mingled 
delight  and  worry.  "Is  that  the  S.  and  S.  man  with 
Luders?"  she  asked  hurriedly. 

"That's  him,"  said  Stash;  "notice  his  spatterdash- 
ers!" 

"Why,  Pally,  they're  a  whole  spot  battery!  You 
might  as  well  ask  me  have  I  seen  Crowly's  peach  and 
cream  throat-protector !" 

It  happened  .that  Crowly  stood  just  behind  them. 
Stepping  forward,  with  hand  to  breast,  he  husked: 
"It  is  I?" 

Mar  giggled:  "I'm  truly  ashamed!" 

"Good! — good!"  said  he. 

•"Bon!  bon!"  Mar  paraphrased,  "those  are  words 
no  Frenchman  fails  to  understand." 

Crowly  bowed  and  presented  gravely  his  box  of 
menthol  cough-drops. 

"They  save  the  voice,  but  drug  the  soul,"  said  Mar, 
taking  one.  "How's  yours? — I  don't  mean  the  last 
— that  you  have  none  of!" 

"You  can  hardly  mean  my  voice!"  sibilated  Crowly, 


"BACK  TO  THE  BOULEVARDS"         183 

favoring  his  throat  as  though  it  were  a  boil ;  "Plazarski 
will  have  to  throw  me  the  rope." 

At  this  Stash  kicked  up  his  heels  and  threatened  to 
fall  over  backward. 

Dimmick's  whistle  purred  viciously.  Like  colored 
fire-flys  against  the  dusk  of  the  fly  galleries  the  last 
girls  flittered  down  from  the  dressing-rooms.  In  a 
few  minutes  now  the  first  call  would  come.  Phantom 
violin  chords  were  lost  in  the  dull  bourdon  of  the  ris- 
ing house.  The  girls  were  stuttering  to  the  peep-hole 
on  tingling  toes — and  falling  back  with  gestures  of 
nervous  abandon. 

The  first  ensemble  was  called. 

In  the  dusk  of  the  right  entrance  Stash  caught  the 
sound  of  pinched  breathing,  the  dainty  crepitation  of 
costumes,  a  distant  taroo-bahoo  pianissimo.  He  smelled 
the  fragrance  of  romantic  dust — stale  but  yesterday 
— exalted  now  into  perfume  by  the  fragility  of  the 
magic  moment — like  the  arm  powders,  the  grease 
paint,  the  quaint  flaws  of  soapy  perfume  from  newly 
washed  hair.  He  was  chewing  the  corner  of  his  lip 
.  .  .  the  bell  rang.  .  .  . 

From  the  mouth  of  the  cavern  swept  twenty- four 
young  voices  in  a  storm  of  high  sweet  ringing. 

II 

At  the  end  of  the  act  the  curtain  ran  down  to  a  thun- 
der of  applause.  Back-stage  was  an  indescribable  con- 
fusion. One  moment  Stash  heard  McCandlish  rum- 
bling in  his  ear :  "We've  got  the  hank  over  'em !" 

And  the  next  thing  he  knew — Crowly  was  whisper- 
ing— "You've  got  to  do  it,  man !  .  .  ." 

Stash  threw  out  his  hand  in  protest. 


184     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

Mar  clenched  his  arm:  "You've  got — got — got — 
got  to!  It's  you  or  nothing,  Pally!"  Luders  slapped 
his  shoulder. 

His  brain  in  a  high  humming,  Stash  plunged  away  to 
Carmody's  dressing-room.  It  had  come  to  him  .  .  . 
his  great  chance!  The  royal  madness  swept  in  to  his 
call — rocked  him  out  on  the  first  long  roller  of  the  new 
sea. 

He  glanced  into  the  mirror  above  the  make-up  shelf. 
He  looked  the  part — a  dashing  young  smuggler  leader. 
The  jaunty  tatterdemalion  costume  swept  him  away — 
into  another  land. 

He  stood  in  the  first  right  now,  with  Luders  and  Mac 
whispering  encouragement:  "Listen,  my  boy — to  let 
your  voice  swell  out  like  when  you  don't  give  a  damn 
for  anybody — that's  the  way! " 

"Cleek  into  it,  birkie!"  gruffed  McCandlish,  "ding 
into  it!" 

The  blood  was  pounding  in  Stash's  temples.  The 
thought  had  come  to  him  that  the  whole  enterprise 

was  waiting  on  him  to  know  itself  a  triumph — or 

"Well — well !"  he  whispered,  "I  can't  bother  'bout  all 
that!" 

Once  out  there,  his  lines  rushed  from  him  with  an 
ease  and  dash  that  amazed  him.  And  now  came  his 
meeting  with  Mar.  He  saw  that  her  eyes  were  cheering 
him — hurrahing  for  him — with  their  Madge  Stair  spar- 
kle so  magnetic. 

His  song  approached:  "Moonlight  Lad."  Before 
the  background  of  Bantry  Bay — where  riding-lights 
trembled  afar — he  stood  in  Ireland ;  and  in  the  soft  blue 
moonlight  flood  stood  little  Mar  beside  him.  But  the 
air  he  swam  in  was  the  night  air  of  the  crossroads  be- 
yond Koban  Lake.  And  his  mind  swung  out  to  the 


"BACK  TO  THE  BOULEVARDS"         185 

gipsy  freedom  of  those  song  filled  nights  with  Varsh 
and  old  Karshenko. 

Without  the  sharp  gust  of  applause,  he  would  have 
known  by  Mar's  eyes  that  he  had  scored.  .  .  . 

The  stage  grew  softly  light — pale  morning  had  come, 
and  the  time  for  his  other  song.  Riding-lights  now 
flickered  faint  on  Bantry  Bay. 

"Ock,  I'm  sad  an'  grievin',  Little  Butterfly — 
Sure,  it's  simply  owin'  all  to  you ! 
Wouldn't  raise  my  hand  if  heaven's  ceilin* 

Was  fallin'  through! 
Sure,  I  think  an  angel  broke  that  roofin' 
Wrapped  herself  up  in  a  scrap  of  blue — 
Aval  I've  spoke  a  sin! — and  let  it  be  one  thin! 
'Twas  always  in  my  father's  fam'ly — 
To  be  shoutin'  'Let  the  roof  fall  in.' " 

Came  Dermody's  voice  across  the  dawn: 

"When  you   see   me   flicker — flutter  by!" — 
—Your  Butterfly!" 

The  curtain  rang  down  again — and  again;  but  the 
house  wouldn't  be  satisfied  till  Stash  and  Dermody  had 
bowed  in  a  blue  spot  clearing  to  white — like  fairyland 
sweeping  deep  into  earthly  dawn.  Then  Stash  and 
Mar  .  .  then  Mar  and  Bellews. 


in 

First  night  was  a  complete  triumph.  Scarbro  was 
called  for;  but  he  was  found  asleep — or  in  a  feverish 
coma.  .  .  .  Stash  slapped  old  Maunsell,  who  was  wel- 
tering in  distracted  elation,  and  promised  that  he  would 
take  care  of  Scarry  and  get  him  home. 

With  a  sense  of  shock  and  disillusion  he  found  the 
old  leader  in  his  short  scorched  overcoat  wavering  de- 


186     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

liriously  on  his  arm — out  through  the  deserted  frosty 
foyer — into  the  crystal  cold  of  a  city  of  dying  holiday 
rumors,  where  the  old  man's  night  of  triumph  had 
dwindled  in  a  haze.  Far  down  the  blue  twinkling  depth 
of  a  cross  street  a  faint  whistling  rang  .  .  . 

"  'Twas  always  in  my  father's  fam'ly — 
To  be  shoutin'— Let  the  roof  fall  in!" 

CHAPTER  V 


Stash  had  fairly  to  fight  with  Luders  for  the  time 
to  attend  Scarbro  in  the  muggy,  fever  pungent  room ; 
where  he  opened  and  shut  windows,  chafed  the  old 
fellow's  hands  and  told  him  the  Tunnel  talk  or  read  the 
favorable  reviews. 

He  was  playing  "Carmody"  now;  Crowly  having 
thrown  it  up  through  Luders'  clever  forcing.  For  that 
cool  fellow  would  stand  no  "funny  stuff"  as  he  called 
it,  and  ruled  the  company  with  a  grip  of  iron.  The 
agreement  with  Silliman  &  Shott  gave  him  a  power 
that  favored  their  dictation  through  his  covert  and 
sympathetic  alliance  with  them.  Together  they  were 
out  to  make  it  pay;  and  it  was  paying.  The  songs 
were  out  and  ringing  all  over  the  city  in  those  first 
bright  weeks  of  January.  The  day  Stash  left  on  the 
twelve  weeks'  tour  he  pulled  Scarbro  to  the  window 
to  hear  someone  in  the  street  whistling  "Ask  Me  Just 
Again." 

A  week  later  the  company  in  Toledo  learned  of  his 
death.  And  Stash  had  his  first  quarrel  with  Luders 
because  of  his  angry  shame  that  Lee  had  kept  him  away 
from  the  old  leader. 


"BACK  TO  THE  BOULEVARDS"         187 


When  the  tour  ended  in  June  it  was  too  late  to  go 
into  training  with  Skanlock's  team;  but  Stash  was 
cheerfully  reconciled  to  helping  McCandlish  in  his 
Mackinac  office.  His  abruptness,  his  power  of  quick 
decision,  were  just  the  essentials  for  this  work.  After 
a  week's  introduction  he  took  charge  of  the  office ;  Mc- 
Candlish returning  to  Detroit. 

At  times,  as  he  thought  of  how  he  might  have  been 
in  Durand,  a  queer  sense  of  longing  gripped  his  heart. 
Sometimes  he  neglected  answering  Marika's  letters 
from  the  resentful  feeling  that  she  was  abetting  the 
sadness  which  had  always  bothered  him  since  a  tiny 
boy  in  the  dreary  old  hotel.  She  told  him  news  of  his 
brother  too.  And  he  was  reminded  of  how  in  the 
midst  of  all  his  enterprises  he  had  shown  so  little  care 
for  old  Varsh.  The  most  he  had  ever  done  for  him  had 
been  to  smash  up  the  fixtures  in  Jastrow's  saloon  in 
rage  over  Varsh's  drunken  humiliation  in  that  hole.  He 
chuckled,  a  little  shamefully,  over  this.  Yes,  that  was 
about  the  best  he  had  done;  Varsh  and  he  had  grown 
so  much  different  from  each  other  now. 

It  clashed  queerly  with  his  growing  estrangement 
from  Durand  to  look  suddenly  one  evening  into  the 
face  of  Rose  Maddon.  Her  eyes  crinkled  with  teasing 
delight  as  she  called  to  him  from  the  overhang  of  a 
smart  little  sloop. 

"Stash  Plazarski!" 

"Not  if  I  can  catch  this  breeze !"  shouted  a  big  dark- 
haired  fellow  who  saw  her  move  toward  the  landing- 
stage.  But  the  breeze  was  dawdling,  and  Stash  had 


188     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

sprung  to  catch  Rose's  hand  and  swing  her  over.  His 
heart  was  pounding  joyously. 

They  watched  the  sloop  stand  out  lazily  into  the  rosy 
evening  light. 

"Maybe  you'd  have  looked  prettier  out  there,"  said 
Stash,  "but  I'm  glad  you  took  the  jump,  Rose  Maddon. 
Just  saying  your  name  makes  me  feel  I'm  in  Durand 
again." 

They  walked  slowly  on,  up  the  mounting  bluff  walk, 
talking  of  old  times.  Turning,  they  looked  back  down 
upon  the  lilac  and  purple  mystery  of  the  harbor  and 
the  confetti  bright  lights  that  pricked  the  hotel  pha- 
lanx. 

"To-morrow  night  at  this  time  we'll  be  on  board  the 

Great  Northern So  it's  good-bye,  until "  she 

hummed  lightly — "Until  Another  Time,"  from  Sha- 
neen. 

"Did  you  see  it?"  Stash  asked  eagerly. 

"Certainly — in  Cleveland — and  a  second-rate  affair 
it  was." 

"Couldn't  have  been  our  company  then !"  said  Stash. 

"But  it  was — because  I  saw  'Stan  Plazarski'  on  the 
bill,  just  as  in  the  Savoy  days — and  I  saw  you  singing 
'Moonlight  Lad.' ' 

"Did! Well,  I  havn't  any  foolish  notions  about 

it.  It's  a  second-rate  production;  but  it's  a  jolly  thing, 
and  we're  on  for  forty  weeks'  booking  next  year.  But 
won't  you  even  say  you  liked  my  work?" 

"I  will,"  said  Rose,  with  charming  gravity,  "because 
I  did.  You  sort  of  took  hold  of  my  throat  in  'Moon- 
light Lad.'" 

"I'm  ashamed  of  myself,"  chuckled  Stash,  "never  did 
that  to  a  lady  before !" 

"And  one  reason  I'm  so  interested,"  said  Rose,  " — if 


"BACK  TO  THE  BOULEVARDS"         189 

you'll  just  let  a  little  learner  talk  about  herself — I'm 
going  for  voice  this  year — to  Vienna.  Dad  says  I  can 
have  the  new  house — or  Vienna  and  voice.  Just  like 

a  restaurant  choice — coffee  and  Viennas — or 1  told 

him  I'd  take  Vienna — and  I  wouldn't  come  home  until 
he  had  a  new  house  for  me  to  come  to.  That's  my 
choice !" 

"What ! — leave  the  Castle !"  Stash  exclaimed. 

"The  Castle ! — everybody  makes  fun  of  it — even  you 
—if  you'd  tell "  " 

He  couldn't  keep  the  reminiscent  twinkle  from  his 
eye:  "No,  I  thought  it  was  grand-prop  .  .  .  But  I 
sort  of  remember  Ced  Morf  saying — 'If  Rose  would 
get  up  bright  and  early  some  morning  she  could  have 
that  tower  most  chopped  down  by  noon !' ' 

"There ! "  she  laughed  with  a  sputter  of  chagrin, 

"you  sort  of  remember  all  too  well!  I've  heard  that 
Fentrees  will  build  on  Traverse  Hill  if  Imbrie's  mine 
pays.  Dad  says  he's  gotten  in  pretty  deep — Mr.  Fen- 
tree." 

"Fen ! — is  that  so !  I  wish  I  could  get  down  there! — 
and  see  them  all.  ..." 

"Who  is  it  really  lures  you  back  to  old  slapdash 
town  ?" 

"Who?  .  .  .  well,  maybe  I  want  to'  go  down  to  hear 
Carniola  Ban  play  his  black  fiddle!  In  every  one  of 
Marika's  letters  old  Varika  puts  in  a  message  that  I 
ought  to  come  down  an'  hear  this  Big  Ban  play  his 
black  fiddle !  Blue-black,  he  claims,  as  a  Czigane  girl's 
hair!" 

"Who  is  this  Ban?"  Rose  smiled  questioningly. 

"A  fellow  from  Hungary.  The  Turks  stole  him 
away  in  Carniola — for  a  ransom." 

"Carniola! — what  a  beauty  name!" 


190     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

Stash  smiled :  "You  hear  such  names  at  Hartranft's 
all  the  time!  This  fellow  Ban  slipped  away  with  a 
gipsy  troupe — and  came  across,  playing.  One  day 
came  wandering  down  the  road  to  Varika's — and  Var- 
ika  simply  won't  let  him  go." 

Rose  Maddon  sighed:  "Somehow  everything  you 
did  down  there,  and  lived,  seems  more  interesting  than 
anything  I  ever  had." 

They  drifted  back  towards  the  hotels  and  the  har- 
bor, now  sinking  in  dusk  and  shadows — as  blue-black 
as  Carniola  Ban's  violin. 


m 

The  next  morning  he  saw  her  off — with  her  father. 
She  introduced  Stash  as  "the  boy  that  welcomed  me  to 
Durand  the  first  day  he  came  to  town  .  .  .  Serenaded 
me  by  daylight  ...  it  was  extremely  modern — I  stood 
in  the  mouth  of  a  steel  stack — your  own  little  Rose- 
mary. He  loves  Durand  so  much  he  wants  to  be  pain- 
killer in  your  bank." 

"Payin'  teller!"  Maddon  laughed  heartily.  "Some 
girls,  Mr.  Plazarski,  come  round  their  fathers  with 
petting  and  pussying.  But  Rose  pulls  my  leg  with  her 
jokin'  chatter.  More  natural,  you  see." 

"Or  farther  seeing,"  Stash  smiled.  The  happy  but 
proud  restraint  of  his  manner  before  Rose's  father  did 
not  prevent  the  dark  eyes  shooting  a  wicked  gleam  at 
Rose.  In  his  white  flannels  and  blue  coat  he  looked 
like  a  dark,  bronzed  prince  from  Southern  Europe  trav- 
eling incog. — except  for  the  sun-scorched  hair. 

Her  dancing  cerulean  eyes  tossed  back  his  challenge : 
"Do  you  remember,"  she  said,  "that  time  in  the  Court 
House  at  Durand  when  I  said — Wouldn't  it  be? — and 


"BACK  TO  THE  BOULEVARDS"         191 

gave  a  pause  for  you  to  say — 'Wouldn'  what?'  You 
always  left  off  the  t.  It  used  to  be  pretty  amusing  to 
trap  you  into  saying  didn' — and  easy  too !" 

Stash  assumed  his  attitude  of  somewhat  lofty  but 
quizzical  restraint,  looking  at  her  hawkishly,  question- 
ingly :  "That  will  be  pretty  nice  to  think  about — that 
I've  given  you  fun.  I'll  think  about  it  when  you're  in 
Europe." 

"That'll  be  a  long  time — because  I  may  be  there 
years  and  years — eh,  dad?" 

Appealed  to,  her  father  said :    "We'll  see  about  it." 

Her  last  word  was :  "You  never  asked  me  to  sing 
for  you." 

He  made  a  gesture  of  self-reproach.  It  was  a  lonely 
evening,  haunted  by  little  shifting  pictures  of  Rose — 
by  startling  rumors  of  her  voice,  swinging  the  vivid 
corners  of  his  memory  of  her  and  bearing  fast  upon 
him — then  fading  far. 

He  sat  in  a  distant  deep  corner  of  one  of  the  lofty 
hotel  verandas.  The  deep  far-off  booming  of  the  Hu- 
ronic  did  not  distract  his  gnawing  thinking,  nor  did 
the  flurry  of  voices  and  hurrying  feet.  His  thoughts 
had  left  Rose  to  seek  out  the  deeper  cause  of  his  ach- 
ing discomfort;  and  he  saw  Marika's  face  as  vividly 
as  though  it  whitened  the  dark  before  him — as  though 
the  hot  summer  moon  shone  on  them  where  the  cross- 
roads lay — in  the  dusk — beneath  the  alders — by  Koban 
Lake.  He  saw  her  listening  for  him  through  the  Ban's 
playing.  And  in  a  sudden  passion  of  hot  dismay  he 
saw  that  he  already  thought  of  her  as  someone  that 
he  had  agreed  with  himself  to  leave  behind.  He  sprang 
up;  he  couldn't  bear  that  feeling;  and  joined  the  groups 
that  watched  the  gemmed,  majestic  curve  of  the  Hu- 
ronic  standing  in  to  her  berth. 


BOOK  SIX:    MARIKAOFTHE 
CROSSROADS 

CHAPTER  I 


Stash  had  reached  the  end  of  a  second  Mackinac 
summer.  His  elation  in  leaving  the  ticket-broking 
office  grew  as  the  night  trip  south  brought  him  nearer 
and  nearer  Detroit.  He  was  approaching  the  city  of 
his  boyish  dreams  in  royal  consort :  for  Diblee  of  the 
old  Lady  Island  crowd,  of  the  lazy  magnificent  man- 
ner, had  attached  himself  to  Stash  during  an  idle  week 
in  the  old  fort  town. 

It  was  after  midnight  when  they  tapped  across  the 
murmurous  marble  corridors  of  the  new  Detroit  sta- 
tion and  were  carried — as  though  on  the  wash  of  the 
cool  night  breeze — down  blue,  deep  glimmering  ave- 
nues, to  Diblee's  Chittenden  Square  club.  There  in  a 
dim  lighted  upper  hall  they  found  themselves  in  the 
grip  of  vindictive  welcome.  Chairs  crashed.  Bed- 
room doors  of  the  old  demoded  mansion  boomed  resent- 
fully. Turbaned  and  bath-robed  figures  attacked;  and 
were  borne  down  by  Diblee's  great  shoulders.  He 
flung  them  right  and  left;  but  fell  trapped  at  last  and 
was  hoisted  to  the  hurricane  deck  of  the  piano,  where 
he  burst  vengef ully  and  joyfully  into  song : 

193 


194     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

"  'Then  from  his  warm  bed 
We  will  urge  a  man — 
Some  nice  gentle 
Kindly  old  clergyman — 
Who  when  wide  awake 
Will  not  grieve 
To  turn  out  for  me !' " 

"There's  my  Jerome  Kern  backfire,"  he  laughed; 
"Plazarski's  turn!" 

"Plazarski  to  the  bridge !"  announced  the  thin-faced 
fellow  called  Tallant,  "the  Smuggler's  song!" 

Stash  sprang  to  the  top :  "Who'll  throw  me  my  old 
wrap-rascal?"  he  called.  Someone  hurled  him  an 
oriental  drape  from  a  model's  throne.  "We're  off!" 
he  warned. 

After  the  tumult  of  approval,  a  full  chorus  was  de- 
manded. 

"Bear  on,  all  hands,"  Diblee  sang  out,  "let  the  moon 
&nd  all  the  rest  the  dooryard  planets  hear !" 

xt  seemed  to  Stash  that  these  must  have  heard;  but 
when  later  he  looked  from  the  room  Diblee  had  paged 
him  to,  they  burned  steadfastly  above  the  dreaming 
square.  There  had  been  glorious  high  jinks ;  and  Stash 
thanked  Diblee  and  the  three  men  who  had  followed 
down  the  hall  with  arms  looped  about  each  other's 
shoulders. 

"We  can't  help  ourselves,"  said  Tallant,  "some  of  us 
are  born  to  charm." 

"He  merely  shouts  it  in  your  ear,"  said  Diblee ;  "well, 
let's  rouse  the  preacher  once  more,  for  luck." 

They  passed  down  the  hall  singing : 

"  'Then  from  his  warm  bed 
We  will  urge  a  man — 
Some  nice  gentle 
/  Crafty  old  clergyman — '  " 


MARIKA  OF  THE  CROSSROADS         195 

Their  whistling  throbbed  away  through  the  halls  and 
died  out.  .  .  .  Stash  felt  as  if  he  had  been  taken  into 
an  Arabian  Night  of  good  fellowship — and  Diblee  the 
friendly  cool  seneschal  who  had  unlocked  the  door. 


ii 

A  fresh  lake  breeze  wakened  him  by  slatting  the  in- 
side window  blinds ;  and  Stash  started  out  to  find  An- 
dre. He  was  disappointed  when  lanky  Tav  Fentree  re- 
ferred him  to  Miss  Prinzep's  Studio  on  Corkran  and 
Portage.  But  Andre's  welcome  was  not  disappointing. 
It  was  a  part  with  the  scurrying  lustres  of  the  river,  the 
fresh  charm  of  the  city — as  if  it  had  renewed  itself  for 
the  holiday  makers  now  hurrying  home  from  all  the 
Lakes. 

Stabbing  carelessly  at  a  tempera  sketch  of  Quebec, 
"old  town,"  she  told  him  the  latest  news  of  the  Prinzeps, 
of  stocky  Raoul  Janvier,  of  Lee  Luders.  .  .  .  "Stash! 
— he  let  me  write  the  lyric  for  a  new  melody  of  his." 

"Old  Lee?  Good!  I  havn't  seen  him  for  three 
months.  I  didn't  know  you  got  along  with  him." 

"But  certainly!  This  melody  came  to  him  at  the 
Shabby  Lantern.  He  dared  me  to  write  the  words. 
Done !  On  the  back  of  the  same  envelope  he  jotted  his 
idears  on!" 

Stash  laughed :    "Wenrick  get  it  out  ?" 

"Not  yet.  Nadelka  is  going  to  sing  it  at  the  Lantern 
Friday  night.  If  it  goes.  .  .  .  Understand,  Raoul  and 
Miss  Prinzep  were  with  us  that  night,  Stash.  I'm 
not  tearing  your  dear  old  Lee  away.  He's  such  a  busy, 
blue-eyed  man!  If  you  stay  till  Friday  night " 

"Sure ! — fine !"  Stash  leapt  with  approval,  "we  can 
go  all  together." 


196     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

As  he  was  leaving,  Andre  suddenly  called:  "Oh,  I 
almost  forgot.  The  Morfs  live  here  now.  And  Rose 
Maddon's  with  them  this  week.  Back  from  abroad. 
You  might  see  her  before  you  leave." 

"Yes?"  said  Stash,  a  sudden  rich  singing  in  his 
heart  prompting  him  to  gay  perversity,  "she  used  to  be 
quite  a  favorite  with  Mister  Fen,  didn't  she?"  And 
swung  off  to  McCandlish's  hotel. 


CHAPTER  II 


The  wheelman's  call  on  the  Lakes — "The  lights  are 
bright!" — had  been  warped  to  other  uses  where  the 
darkened  river  ran  below  the  dancing  pier  of  The 
Shabby  Lantern.  The  legend  ran :  "The  lights  are 
always  bright  at  the  Shabby  Lantern." 

The  Lantern  itself  was  barrel  shaped  and  bent,  and 
blinked  in  orange  and  lavender.  With  such  a  con- 
vivial "bush"  entertainment  should  not  fall  short;  nor 
did  it,  however  tantalizing,  in  the  spasmodic  appear- 
ance of  its  petted  darling,  Nadelka.  Nadelka  and  her 
black  cat :  She  walked  with  him  to-night  between  the 
tables,  while  he  threw  disparaging  green  glances  about 
him  or  settled  against  her  red  bodice. 

"She  has  too  much  of  that  careless  temperament," 
Lee  Luders  sought  to  reassure  Andre  about  the  pre- 
miere of  their  little  song,  "but  for  that  I  have  a  cure — 
I'll  speak  to  her  if  you " 

Andre  shook  her  head  decidedly. 

"Let  me,"  said  Stash ;  "I  can  manage  her  as  well  as 
Lee." 


MARIKA  OF  THE  CROSSROADS         19T 

"Stash,  are  you  going  to  act  wild  to-night?"  Andre's 
tone  was  apprehensive. 

Stash  swung  off  across  the  long  room.  They  saw 
him  greet  Nadelka  with  an  abrupt  gesture — saw  a 
smile  of  sudden  recognition  cross  her  face.  He  came 
back  with  a  look  of  secret  estrangement  darkening  his 
brows.  "I  knew  her,"  he  said;  "she  was  little  Ella 
Seryetski — on  Clement — back  of  us." 

Diblee  and  Tallant  called  to  him  from  the  next  table, 
petitioning  effusively  for  the  company  of  such 
a  marked  man:  "Shed  some  your  moldy  old  lustre 
over  us." 

"This  fat  pillar's  in  the  way,"  Stash  smiled.  "I 
can't  curve  the  stuff.  .  .  .  Never  mind — she's  going  to 
sing." 

And  so  it  was.  She  appeared  in  a  small  Kiosk-like 
proscenium  of  weary  Persian  colors,  and  her  round 
voice  tore  from  her  throat  like  something  mad  with 
life. 

"She's  a  Mitzi,"  declared  Tallant. 

A  ruffle  of  eager  applause  burst  out.  There  were 
cries  of  "Nadelka!"  The  song  was  hung  out  again 
from  the  estrade  that  separated  the  cafe  from  the 
dancing  pier. 

Luders  raised  his  cigarette  toward  Andre  in  a  ges- 
ture of  assured  congratulation :  "To  us ! — I  think 
Wenrick  will  be  on." 

"It  seemed  to  go,"  Andre  said  lightly;  "Stash,  they're 

talking  about  you! "  She  nodded  toward  the  next 

table. 

"I  was  just  saying" — Diblee  looked  over — "that 
Plazarski  and  I  are  planning  a  play.  He  has  all  the 
gadgets  for  warranting  it  shipshape  and  AA-i." 

"Dib,  you  must  brace  yourself,"  the  cadaverous  Tal- 


198     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

lant  warned  him ;  "it's  the  desiah  of  the  morth  for  the 
dramar — you'll  get  singed." 

"I'm  surprised  at  you,  Pally,"  said  Luders  blandly, 
"that  you  would  let  me  out  on  your  schemes !" 

"I  couldn't  let  you  out  before  it  was  formed,  could 
I?"  Stash  answered  curtly.  "We  were  just  amusing 
ourselves  on  the  way  down."  He  turned  to  Andre 
gruffly:  "I  thought  you  said  something  about  phoning 
the  Morfs  and  Rose  Maddon?" 

"They  were  coming,"  Andre  replied,  and  at  that  mo- 
ment something  tickled  her  neck.  ...  In  approaching, 
Rose  had  made  a  sign  to  Stash,  and — tickled  Andre 
with  the  fur  of  her  evening  cape. 


ii 

Stash  sprang  up  to  be  the  first  to  take  her  hand. 
With  a  ringing  of  old  memory  in  his  heart,  he  saw 
that  it  was  the  same  "Rose  Madder  in  a  shining  spot." 
But  time  and  far  distances  had  not  neglected  to  forge  a 
new  shimmer  upon  her  merry  marquise  fashion.  His 
heart  was  hammering  as  he  led  her  towards  the  pavil- 
ion. "I  can't  ask  you  to  sing  here,  but  .  .  .  Don't 
you  remember — the  last  thing  you  said  to  me?  Can't 
keep  it  out  of  your  eyes  that  you  remember !" 

They  stood  by  the  pier  railing  in  the  semi-dark, 
watching  the  steady  beat  of  ship's  lights  forging  by  the 
glimmering  Ontario  shore.  In  time  the  talk  swung  to 
his  plans.  They  were  inchoate.  McCandlish  had  sold 
"Shaneen"  to  the  S.  &  S.  management. 

"Mac  wants  me  to  go  right  in  and  work  out  some- 
thing new  for  a  try-out.  But  I  haven't  much  confidence 
in  myself." 


MARIKA  OF  THE  CROSSROADS         199 

"You  mustn't  make  me  laugh,  Stash!  There  isn't 
anything  but  that  you  think  you  can  do.  Is  there?" 

He  laughed  a  little. 

"Why  don't  you  do  the  play  for  the  Durand  Ad 
Masque.  One  of  the  newspapermen  usually  gets 
it  .  .  ." 

"Why  shouldn't  I  have  a  try  at  it  ?"  Stash  exclaimed. 
"Anyway,  I'm  coming  down — sure !" 

After  dancing  a  Komzhak  waltz — "Carinthian 
Roses" — they  drifted  back  to  the  pier  railing  again. 

"That  Komzhak  music  brings  it  all  back,  Stash! 
Such 'uniforms — such  dancing!  I  didn't  think  to  tell 
you — I  met  an  officer  from  your  Carniola,  where  that 
wandering  boy  with  his  black  fiddle  came  from.  I 
thought  of  you  and  last  summer  on  the  beach.  He 
was  dreadfully  stupid." 

"I  see  the  connection,"  said  Stash ;  "doesn't  this  one 
sound  like  our  pick?"  He  referred  to  the  new  clash-as- 
clash-can  two-step  just  ringing  out. 

"I  hadn't  noticed  that  it  was."  But  she  yielded 
quickly,  and  they  were  soon  swaying  down  the  long 
shining  floor. 

in 

Later,  above  the  dark  slip-slapping  water,  Stash 
talked  with  Andre  of  her  father.  She  asked  him  to 
write  her  how  Fentree  was  looking. 

"I'm  worrying  about  him,"  she  said.  "I  think  Mr. 
Imbrie's  somehow  failed  him  on  the  mine  scheme  and 
now  Maddon  and  Marantle  are  taking  it  up.  They 
wouldn't  take  it  up  if  it  wasn't  a  good  thing — And  yet 
I  feel  there's  something  wrong  about  it.  You'll  tell 
me  if  he  seems  worried  or — anything — Stash? " 

Stash  assented  with  a  hoarse  voice  of  troubled  eager- 


200     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

ness.  "If  he  was  in  any  difficulty — I,  you  know,  I've 
got  a  little  something,  Andre — it's — it's  all  his!" 

"No— even  if  he  were — it  might  make  him  feel — the 
jig  was  up.  ...  Thank  you,  Stash."  She  pressed  his 
arm  quickly. 

The  other  groups  had  come  out  to  watch  the  ship- 
ping a  few  moments  before  leaving.  Green  lights  and 
red  pricked  out  the  monstrous  slippery  shadows. 

"We'll  be  going  too,"  said  Andre,  taking  Miss  Prin- 
zep's  arm,  "and  Stash " 

"I  promised  to, see  Nadelka  again,"  said  he,  "or,  I 
mean  she  promised  to  see  me." 

"Another  fancy,  boy!"  Luders  swung  back  to  shake 
his  hand,  "so  many  in  one  night  that  I  don't  wonder 
you  forget  to  tell  me  your  plans." 

"I'm  not  bound  to  tell  you  my  plans,"  said  Stash 
abruptly,  "more  than  you  are  to  tell  me  your  sleeping 
agreements  with  Stilliman  and  Shott's." 

Luders  returned  in  a  bland  tone :  "It's  just  as  I  said 
— 'No  use' — to  old  Mac  when  he  advises  with  me 
about  your  erratic  way — warning  him  not  to  get  im- 
patient with  you." 

Stash's  blood  began  to  boil :  "You  want  to  be  quits 
with  me  and  shake  me  with  Mac.  Try  again !" 

Luders  turned  away  smiling;  and  Stash  found  him- 
self alone  with  Diblee,  and  aching  with  dull  misery  as 
he  studied  a  green  light  drifting  by  in  sullen  dreaming. 

IV 

He  found  Nadelka  ready  to  advance  in  supple  yield- 
ing fashion  into  his  favor,  to  talk  of  plays,  songs,  en- 
gagements; but  he  suddenly  cut  in  with  the  query: 


MARIKA  OF  THE  CROSSROADS         201 

"Where  was  it,  Delka,  you  saw  my  mother,  you 
thought?" 

"Yes,  I  thought — that's  so — but  that's  all.  Down 
near  where  she  used  to  live — the  brick  house.  Couldn't 
say  for  sure  now,  Stash.  Why  you  so  worried?" 

"I  thought  she  was  in  Buffalo — I  would  try  to  find 
her  if  I  knew  she  was  staying  here.  Did  she  look  alone, 
was  she  walking?" 

"I  will  tell  you,"  Nadelka  settled  her  lips  a  little 
primly,  which  had  a  bizarre  effect  with  her  fiercely  overt 
style;  "walking  alone  she  was,  and  took  a  car.  As  if 
she  had  lots  of  time  and  no  one  waiting.  A  blue  and 
pink  hat  she  wore." 

Stash  started:  "It  must  have  been  her."  As  soon 
as  he  could  he  hurried  off.  He  saw  as  vividly  as  in  a 
trance  or  calcium  light  his  mother  in  her  old  blue  hat 
wandering  slowly  by  the  brick  house.  A  wave  of  deso- 
lation submerged  him,  and  a  shame  that  he  seemed  to 
be  leaving  her  there,  just  as  he  had  somehow  agreed 
to  leave  Marika  alone  by  Koban  crossroads. 

If  he  could  just  see  Marika  now  and  tell  her  how  he 
felt — see  that  wistful  smile  crinkling  into  consoling 
fun  and  little  jokes — ah,  Marika!  Maybe  she  could 
help  him  in  this  funny  ache  that  was  creeping  all  over 
him. 

He  glanced  at  his  watch ;  it  was ,  not  yet  eleven — 
they  often  stayed  up  at  Koban.  .  .  .  The  thought  came 
with  a  rush,  and  once  inside  the  telephone  booth  he 
trembled  with  eagerness:  "Vartek  Varika — Koban 
Lake,  Indiana; — Stan  Plazarski,  3791,  Jefferson." 
...  A  long  wait,  during  which  his  thoughts  followed 
hotly  the  bridging  connection — down  below  the  great 
lake  to  Durand — then  to  the  cross-roads.  .  .  .  The  bell 
jangled :  "Mr.  Plazarski  ? — your  party — come  ahead !" 


203      STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

He  called  for  Marika,  and  soon  from  some  inter- 
minable distance,  faintly  cool  and  far  away,  came  a 
voice : 

"Is— is  it  Stash?" 

"Oh,  Rika,  I  hav'n't  written  to  you,  but  I'm  coming 
down.  That's  the  kind  of  fellow  I  am,  that  I  try  to 
make  up." 

"We're  moving — onto  the  farm.  To-morrow's  the 
last  night  here  maybe — but  you'd  come  just  the  same !" 

"Sure!    I  can't  tell  you  how  it  seems  to  hear  you." 

"Just  the  same  is  the  matter  of  me! — Kraka- 
nosh? " 

"Oh,  I'd  only  like  to  hear  you  say  that  again.  .  .  . 
Then — Rika — goodbye,  until  I  get  there,  an' — good- 
bye!" 

In  the  stillness  of  the  booth  he  waited  .  .  .  as  if  he 
could  lomehow  linger  in  the  citron-smelling  dusk  of 
the  lobby  where  he  had  just  been  talking  with  Rika. 
.  .  .  The  glare  and  music  outside  seemed  unreal,  un- 
friendly and  far  away. 


Diblee  took  him  to  Chittenden  Square  for  the  night. 
The  Viking  fellow  had  the  prospect  of  a  week's  paint- 
ing in  the  marsh  country  before  him,  and  promised  to 
join  Stash  at  the  Wabash  depot  next  noon. 

It  was  after  mid-day  when  Stash  finished  his  busi- 
ness with  McCandlish,  and  meeting  Diblee,  slid  out 
of  the  train  shed  into  the  hazy  brightness.  It  recalled 
the  morning  when  he  had  seen  his  mother's  white  face 
diminish  and  the  blue  and  pink  hat  grow  dim.  He 
squared  away  from  Diblee  suddenly  and  looked  out 
grimly  at  the  plodding  fateful  grandeur  of  the  ship- 
ping. 


MARIKA  OF  THE  CROSSROADS         203 
CHAPTER  III 


The  marsh  country  was  creeping1  under  a  haze  of 
Autumn  night  when  Stash  reached  the  hostinets.  He 
found  himself  drawn  in  a  din  of  happy  voices  to  the 
broad  lavitza,  round  which  the  chairs  and  tables  for  to- 
morrow's moving  were  stacked  in  gipsy  abandon. 
Everyone  seemed  talking  to  him  at  once — of  the 
new  farm — of  the  Sokol's  play  for  the  new  hall 
fund.  .  .  . 

"What  part  do  you  play,  Karsh?"  Stash  questioned. 

"Zdenko!"  the  wild-witted  blacksmith  answered. 
Varika  shouted  with  laughter :  for  Zdenko  appeared  in 
the  Sokol  play  as  the  head  of  the  dead  man  only. 

"I'm  Dalibor,"  said  Varsh,  calling  Stash's  attention. 

"Yes,  and  the  weakest  part  in  the  whole  thing,"  said 
Jennika,  "unless  you  practise  better." 

"Not  to  tell  you  a  lie,  boy" — Karshenko  slouched 
against  a  table — "I  am  the  jailor,  Benesh — so  don't 
believe  that  other  saying  of  mine  that  I  was  just  a 
bloody  head." 

"My  head  would  have  to  be  lighter  than  yours  to 
believe  that;  wouldn't  it — Anetka?"  Stash  patted  her 
hand  as  she  snuggled  beside  him. 

"Come  over  wid  dat  riddle,  you  Ban !"  Varika  shout- 
ed into  the  dusk.  The  big  swinging  figure  of  the  Car- 
niolan  roamed  out  of  his  retirement.  Behind  him, 
flashing  like  bronze  in  the  hostinets  light,  came  his 
stripling  buddy,  Stevo  Kucin. 

"I  got  to  get  something!" — Varika  started  for  the 
lobby.  Marika  caught  his  arm :  "Promise,  tatski,  you 


won't  call  up  Shabbatas  and  Marzaks  and  all — for  why 
not  have  Stash  without  all  that  crowd !" 

"Oh,  now!"  pled  the  little  man,  "how  you 
know !" 

"I  saw  in  your  sneaky  run!" 

"Nonsense  stuff!" 

But  Marika  had  her  way,  and  cried :  "Come,  Ban ! 
— and  play  for  us  like  you  saw  it  in  that  Buda  cafe — 
where  the  Czigane  played  right  on  the  dancers'  heels !" 

She  swung  to  Stash,  holding  out  her  arms  with  a 
little  laugh  of  whimsical  tremolo.  In  a  moment  Ban 
was  playing  at  their  heels,  following  in  lazy  grace  as  if 
he  skated  in  their  train;  quickening,  driving  the  ma- 
zurka faster! — until  it  seemed  as  though  he  swept 
them — on  down  the  empty  lobby— around  the  old  fa- 
miliar and  strangely  vacant  rooms.  .  .  .  They  floated 
through  those  scenes  of  vanished  happy  times  .  .  . 
like  shadows  of  their  old  time  selves.  ...  A  little  cry 
— a  laugh — from  Marika  broke  the  spell,  and  they 
drifted  out  into  the  dusk  and  din  of  voices  under  the 
whispering  alders. 

It  was  like  the  old  capricious  nights  of  the  dark 
lake  shore  once  again.  .  .  .  And  yet  to  Stash  it  seemed 
a  little  strange  and  sad,  carrying  echoes  such  as  rang  in 
the  now  empty  hall  and  rooms  of  the  old  crossroads 
hostinets. 

II 

Early  the  next  morning  Stash  left  the  Richelieu 
House  with  Diblee.  They  caught  a  ride  on  the  work 
train  of  the  new  Valley  Electric  shore  line,  which  car- 
ried them  almost  to  Varika's  door,  where  yellow  bal- 
last was  sifting  into  the  drowsy  slapping  lake. 

Among  the  alders  a  gaudy  red  quilt  made  a  bar- 


MARIKA  OF  THE  CROSSROADS         205 

baric  tent  shape,  and  the  Ban  in  a  crimson  tunic  was 
helping  Marika  roll  the  bedding  for  the  last  load.  She 
flew  out  to  the  road  with  a  sparkle  in  her  dark  eyes  to 
whisper:  "You  see  Ban's  costume  for  Dalibor — he 
just  had  to  try  it  on — the  big  foolish  boy !" 

Varika  hurried  out  to  greet  them,  and  Stash  said: 
"You  don't  look  quite  right  without  your  old  beard, 
Varik — I  sort  of  miss  it." 

"Ho — Ho !"  chuckled  the  little  man,  "so  you  like  my 
beard?  Was  she  a  good  one,  heh?  Well,  we  gotto 
change  all  dese  old  ways.  My  girls  say :  'Ugh !  Poppa, 
you  look  so  oT  fashion.'  Once  you  trim  your  beard 

though "  he  tapped  Diblee's  arm  warningly,  "you 

have  to  build  a  new  house  next,  or  make  yourself  a 
foot  taller,  or  some  other  trifle !  Me — I  had  to  give  up 
de  hostinets  an'  buy  a  farm." 

Diblee  laughed  and  stretched  luxuriously:  "They 
play  the  deuce,  don't  they  ?"  His  eyes  were  roving  into 
the  shady  depths  where  Jennika  lingered  behind  the 
gaudy  tent  like  a  provocative  Czigane  princess.  Stash 
ran  laughingly  to  bring  her  forward,  and  returning, 
with  one  slim  quivering  hand  in  his,  heard  Varika's 
cordial  declaration : 

"Well,  an  artist  is  all  right,  too.  Like  dat  art  gal- 
lery in  Chicago — ver'  fine.  A  dandy  time  we  had  dere 
once — till  noon — an'  we  open  our  eggs  an'  chicken  an' 
Tokaiski.  .  .  .  Well,  ho! — up  comes  one  dose  fellows, 
tellin'  us — you  gotto  lunch  outside!  But  first  I  leave 
him  a  little  pepper  for  his  eggs !  For  den  I  was  a  quick 
man."  He  laughed  uneasily. 

"We  ought  to  been  ashamed  of  ourselves,"  Jennika 
burst  out,  the  white  creaming  round  burning  pink 
islands  in  her  cheeks. 


206      STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

"An*  you  cried  wid  de  rest — not  to  be  able  to  eat 
your  egg!"  Varika  chuckled  anxiously. 

"I  wasn't  crying  for  that!"  Jennika  murmured  in  a 
gritting  tone,  her  liquid  falcon  eyes  slipping  here  and 
there  in  hot  chagrin,  "but  'cause  I  was  so  'shamed." 

"Well — well!"  The  little  Czech  shrugged  nervous- 
ly. The  truth  was  that  he  was  all  in  a  fever  of  eager- 
ness and  recurring  sadness  and  regret  over  leaving  his 
cosy  crossroads  place  where  he  had  known  so  many 
happy  years. 

As  Jennika  turned  away,  her  breast  beating  visibly 
with  a  storm  of  injured  pride,  Diblee  launched  after 
her  with  one  of  those  swift  lunges  of  power  that  graced 
his  lazy  magnificence.  He  stooped  his  great  head  above 
her,  laughing  gruffly:  "Why,  he  did  exactly  right; 
don't  you  know  it,  Miss  Varka!"  Smiling  with  lazy 
confidence  he  led  her  across  the  road  to  the  hostinets 
boat-landing, 

in 

Stash  walked  down  the  brook  with  an  arm  about 
Marika  and  her  father  to  get  some  apples  from  the  old 
trees. 

"You  know — Marika !"  said  the  little  man,  bruising 
two  apples  together  excitedly,  "dat  you  have  dat  prom- 
ise back — dat  you  wouldn't  go  away  if  I  would  move 
to  de  farm!  ...  I  like  de  farm  all  right  now — wid 
some  high  black  horses  an'  Ban  to  play!  I  say,  you 
have  de  promise  back !" 

"No,  tasich,  I  don't  want  to  go  away  like  I  did." 

"Why,  only  yesterday  when  I  tell  you — you  brighten 
like  a  picture !  .  .  .  I  could  see  you  take  a  look  off  at 
dat  music  school — pretty  fine  to  you!  .  .  .  For  var 
you  change !  Well,  maybe  then  'cause  Stash  is  here !" 


MARIKA  OF  THE  CROSSROADS         207 

Marika  flashed  Stash  one  dear  smile  of  her  goldeny 
black  eyes,  glowing  round  a  darkening  sombre  center. 
"Stash  won't  stay  here — so  it  wouldn't  be  that." 

"How  do  you  know  I  wouldn't?"  Stash  demanded. 

"I  guessed  that  .  .  .  times  before." 

There  was  a  subtly  barbaric  touch  about  her  cheek- 
bone that  tangled  with  the  touching  curve  below  to 
leave  a  bitter  feeling — or  even,  if  you  had  hurt  her — 
an  anguished  resentment  hard  to  brush  away. 

Stash  felt  this  now,  as  she  turned  from  him  to  grasp 
her  father's  foolish  pounding  fists : 

"Maybe  I  did  till  this  morning!"  her  voice  turned 
husky;  "but  I  think  I  would  stay  because  Jennika  isn't 
happy  much  alone — and  you  see  when  I'm  around, 
well  .  .  ." 

She  laughed  a  little  at  having  explained  so  poorly, 
and  they  walked  on  towards  the  pavilion  and  the  big 
alders  where  vilet  trophies  had  hung  .  .  .  Tokaishi 
grapes  as  red  as  blood  that  had  dangled  against  the 
wild  young  Varsh's  breast. 

They  found  the  pavilion  deck  a  little  breezy,  and  in 
the  air  a  faint  dinning  of  summer's  end.  Far  through 
the  alders  they  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  lake  like 
mica-flecked  blue  smoke.  .  .  .  And  so  they  lingered 
about.  .  .  . 

"Do  you  remember,  Varik,"  Stash  laughed,  "how 
you  used  to  trot  after  us,  unwinding  your  long  pipe 
stem,  and  beggin'  us  to  slow  up  for  a  taste  of  that ! — 
like  our  legs  were  just  hankerin'  for  it.  ..."  He 
sighed.  "I've  had  such  good  times  here,  and  .  .  .  and 
I  didn't  know  it!  .  .  ." 

"Well — "  Varika  muttered  sympathetically,  "you're 
right,  Stash-boy — but  I  had  such  times  and — and  I  was 
knowing  it.  .  .  ." 


208      STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

Alone  and  striding  along  the  new  roadbed,  Stash 
felt  the  ache  in  his  heart  swell  to  angry  longing;  long- 
ing to  go  back  to  the  old  hostinets  nights  and  times. 
Not  because  they  were  ideal,  but  because  he  had  a  feel- 
ing that  there  was  some  beauty  in  them  that  he  hadn't 
tried  hard  enough  to  realize! — some  beauty  that  he 
could  not  bear  to  lose.  He  turned  to  look  back  at  the 
rambling  old  building,  and  caught  himself  muttering — 
as  when  a  small  boy  crossing  the  Great  Lake — "Good- 
bye .  .  .  old  place  .  .  .  old  times,  too,  I  guess.  ..." 


CHAPTER  IV 


Stash  had  been  accusing  himself  of  neglecting  the 
Fentrees  when — meeting  Fentree  one  morning — he 
found  the  lawyer  begging  him  to  resume  his  old  room 
in  the  lavender  house.  His  decision  was  determined 
by  Fentree's  remark  about  Mrs.  Fentree  and  Louise. 
They  were  unprotected  when  Fentree  was  away  from 
home — with  a  rough  foreign  rooming  place  in  the  big 
brick  house  next  door.  The  old  neighborhood  was 
changing  sadly. 

Stash  found  a  queer  pleasure  in  going  back  to  the 
room  on  the  alley — "Stash's  room."  There  was  an 
odd  little  thrill  in  passing  Old  Whaleback's  Castle  each 
day,  with  always  the  chance  of  a  fleeting  glimpse  of 
Rose  Maddon.  For  she  was  home  again,  and  like  a 
little  goddess  out  of  the  machine  had  touched  the 
powerful  spring  that  won  attention  and  final  accept- 
ance for  his  scenario  masque.  So  he  proudly  thought. 


MARIKA  OF  THE  CROSSROADS         209 

Her  father  was  on  the  committee  that  had  picked  his 
"Aladdin  in  Adland." 

One  morning1  he  ran  eagerly  up  the  winding  drive 
to  answer  a  gleam  of  waving  hand  from  the  porte- 
cochere  steps.  He  found  her  pulling  on  her  gloves; 
and  a  wan  milky  lamp  above  her  head  seemed  to  deny 
it  was  broad  morning  and  claimed  the  castle  terrace 
and  the  girl  on  the  steps  for  Fairyland  .  .  .  and  for 
Stash.  Such  a  Prince  as  he  sprang  up  to  take  her 
hand: 

"How'd  you  like  to  go  through  a  hoodooed  show- 
house — all  dark  and  full  of  spooks?" 

"The  old  Alhambra?  .  .  .  Just  great!  Weren't  you 
afraid  renting  it — they  say  it's  hoodooed  for  good. 
Who  else  is  there  ?" 

"Carpenters  agreed  to  be  there.  That's  all.  We 
may  scare  out  the  ghost  of  the  theatre  cat.  With  his 
eyes  of  green  and  his  goblin  scream — though  he  spits 
ghost-fire  he's  still  a  live  wire  .  .  .  Excuse  me — song 
rhymes.  I've  got  'em  on  the  brain,  Rose.  For  every- 
thing I  have  to  find  a  rhyme !" 

"It's  pitiful,"  she  mourned,  "poor  Stash!"  They 
swept  out  through  the  sandstone  gate  and  up  over  Wa- 
caser  crest.  It  was  exhilarating  to  ride  with  Rose ;  she 
seemed  to  forget  her  hands  lying  carelessly  on  the 
wheel,  and  at  the  most  casual  angles  swerved  off  from 
disaster. 

ii 

Stepping  from  the  mellow  morning  sunshine  into 
the  dark  theatre  was  like  entering  a  gray  cavern  where 
a  ghostly  sunlight  seethed  in  by  stealth  and  the  burden 
of  street  traffic  rumbled  vaguely  as  a  train  tunneling 
under  the  house  and  dwindling  fast  away. 


210     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

"Doesn't  your  voice  echo  ?"  said  Rose.  "Once  when 
I  was  little  I  got  into  church — too  early  for  the  Christ- 
mas practice — and  it  was  terribly  still  like  this — excit- 
ing!" 

"Guess  we  better  go  back  and  find  those  work- 
men." 

"Oh,  no — I  haven't  seen  the  cat  yet!  It  isn't  half 
spooky." 

They  moved  down  through  the  box  gangway  to  back- 
stage. 

Something  suddenly  fell  with  a  clattering  boom. 

"What's  that?"  Rose's  eyes  dilated  in  the  darkness. 
Stash  had  sprung  close  and  bent  above  her,  looking 
up  ...  but  saw  nothing.  .  .  .  The  drowsy  quiet  re- 
sumed. 

"Some  prop  falling,"  Stash  grumbled,  grinning  at 
his  own  alarm.  Yet  a  feeling  of  uneasiness  persisted 
even  as  he  talked  laughingly:  "See  the  funny  old 
grand  drapery.  .  .  .  Do  you  like  to  read  old  grapevine 
on  the  entrance  walls?  ..." 

Rose  stooped  to  decipher  the  catch-words,  reeking 
like  old  musk  of  erotic  buffoonery.  ...  "  'Gone  back 
to  the  runs,  dearie.  .  .  .  You  beautiful  door-grinder  in 
our  alley.' ' 

"Such  cunning  names !"  Rose  laughed.  "Fay  Fayol 
— Cissie  Bernice — Undine  Murdock.  ..." 

Stash  responded  from  up-stage.  .  .  .  "We  could 
play  to  capacity  here  all  right — of  rats!  Whiskered 
guys  like  heavy  uncles  in  the  front  row.  ..." 

Rose  had  just  time  to  think  how  cool  his  laughing 
voice  sounded  when  a  frightful  crash  echoed  through 
the  cavern.  .  .  .  With  heart  thundering  she  flew 
around  the  wing.  Where  Stash  had  stood  there  lay  a 
metal  channel  with  border  lights  which  had  flung  shat- 


MARIKA  OF  THE  CROSSROADS         211 

tered  glass  to  his  feet.  His  face  was  knotted  with  red 
anger,  and  following  his  eyes  she  saw  shadowy  figures 
in  the  fly  gallery  and  heard  a  husky  laugh. 

"You're  all  right!"  she  exclaimed  in  excited  relief. 

"Yes,"  Stash  spoke  abruptly,  "but  I'm  going  to 
get  you  out.  They'd  drop  one  on  you  just  as  soon 
.  .  .  See  here,  you  fellows !  .  .  ."  His  lip  flicked  back 
with  a  snarl  of  roaring  fury :  "If  I  catch  the  one  that 
did  that,  I'll  smash  him  cold.  .  .  .  And  you  tell  Sar- 
tos  and  old  man  Jastrow  that  I  know  who  steered  it!" 

There  was  a  burst  of  laughter,  and  the  cavern  echoed 
fast  with  clanging  tongues  .  .  .  while  a  young  car- 
penter's helper  put  his  head  out  to  shout  gruffly :  "Come 
on,  now — she  just  happen! — I  had  Bartek  and  Louie 
in  to  help.  .  .  .  And  we  was  just  pushin'  up  to  see 
what  you  ..."  He  finished  in  a  clash  of  rolling-mill 
Magyar.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  And  even  Rose — hanging  to  Stash's  hand  as 
she  ran  through  the  gangway — understood  vaguely  the 
outrageous  implication  of  the  roaring  talk.  In  the  street 
she  turned  angrily :  ."Go  back,  and  pretend  it  was  an 
accident!" 

"It's  the  same  old  game,"  said  Stash.  "I'll  go  down 
to  old  man  Jastrow's  to-night — and  tell  them  I'll  get 
Varsh  and  run  Sartos'  gang  out  of  town!"  His  eyes 
were  slits  of  black  fire. 

The  angry  moisture  had  washed  Rose's  eyes  to  a 
flashing  blue:  "They  could  have  killed  you!"  Out 
here  in  the  bright  noisy  street  it  seemed  incredible. 

Stash  gave  a  snort  of  laughter:  "They  take  their 
chance  on  that.  .  .  .  I'm  going  back  now,  Rose.  .  .  . 
Anyway  we  stirred  up  the  ghosts!"  He  smiled  with 
all  his  natural  eagerness  and  joy. 


212     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

She  flashed  back  a  proud  smile :  "Go  and  show 
them.  And  if  they  don't  stop,  I'll— I'll  ask  father"— 
she  hesitated  for  the  word — "to  squelch  them  all!" 

Stash  waved  good-bye :  "He  can  do  that  after  Varsh 
and  I  have  had  our  go!" 


in 

He  chose  the  opposite  alley  .  .  .  and  tip-toeing 
across  the  stage  .  .  .  crashed  into  the  unsuspecting 
group  in  the  gangway  .  .  .  caught  the  Magyar  helper 
by  the  shoulder  and  hurled  him  spinning  into  the  alley. 
A  stiff-armed  strut  towards  the  others  sent  them — 
mocking  and  jeering — out  into  the  dusky  alley. 

He  took  a  last  look  into  the  arching  gloom  of  the 
house.  Two  passing  picture  managements  had  failed 
there.  There  seemed  a  menace  in  the  murmuring  old 
vault.  The  vicious  attack  on  him  could  only  mean  that 
Sartos  had  taken  up  the  old  venomous  fight  just  where 
it  had  dropped  off.  .  .  .  And  if  old  Jastrow,  with  his 
hate  of  the  Plazarskis,  was  behind  Sartos,  then  a 
harassing  and  abusive  struggle  was  just  opening.  .  .  . 
Where  would  it  end  ?  .  .  .  And  the  worst  was  that  he 
had  drawn  Rose  Maddon  into  the  savage  beginning  of 
it!  Thunder! — what  would  her  father  think  of  such 
reckless,  careless  business!  .  .  .  He  stood  scowling. 
.  .  .  And  yet — as  he  banged  the  green  Moorish  door — 
he  felt  a  sudden  thrill  that  the  dubious,  gilded  old  cav- 
ern was  his  house! — and  that  he  was  embarked  on  a 
new  enterprise  of  danger  .  .  .  glory  .  .  .  love!  .  .  . 
Who  knew  what! 


MARIKA  OF  THE  CROSSROADS         213 

CHAPTER  V 


Stash  caught  a  ride  to  the  Koban  blacksmith  shop, 
and  calling  Varsh  aside  told  him  of  the  morning's 
affair. 

"God  damn  it !"  said  Varsh,  "I  would  help  you,  boy ; 
but  only  I  wish  you  would  get  that  tall  guy  away.  .  .  . 
I  know  he  come  with  you — but  that  I  don'  hold  against 
you! — If  you  would  only — Stash-a-boy — He's  spoilin' 
things — an'  boy!  .  .  ."  The  big  brown  hands  were 
trembling — the  old  merry  but  quickly  mournful  eyes 
were  moist  with  eagerness  for  Stash's  help. 

"I  can't  do  anything  about  that  unless  he  hurts  some 
of  my  friends,  can  I?  ...  How  is  he  spoiling  things? 
.  .  .  You  mean  about  ?  .  .  . "  He  saw  he  needn't  form 
Jennika's  name, — for  Varsh  nodded  helplessly. 

"Oh,  well! — "  Stash  tossed  his  head  in  brusque 
counsel — "I  wouldn't  worry!  He  just  plays  around, 
and  never  stays  long."  His  words  struck  him  as  in- 
sincere. 

Varsh's  head  turned  toward  the  lake.  Stash  had 
taken  a  tone  that  waived  his  anxiety.  He  was  baffled 
.  .  .  and  yet  he  said  the  simple  truth.  .  .  .  He  did  not 
blame  Stash  .  .  .  couldn't,  wouldn't!  .  .  .  not  Stash- 
a-boy!  He  looked  back  with  a  sort  of  limp  grin. 

Walking  back  along  the  road  with  Stash,  he  grew 
feverishly  excited  over  the  prospect  of  a  new  running 
fight  like  the  old  days  before  young  Stash  had  left 
for  the  north  and  many  cities.  But  abruptly  he  stopped 
and  said :  "I  go  no  farther,  boy." 

After  Stash  had  started  on  he  looked  back  once  and 


STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

caught  Varsh  turned,  with  a  queer  grin  on  his  face — a 
kind  of  tearful  smile  wrung  dry. 

At  the  landing  beyond  the  hotel  he  found  Diblee  and 
Jennika  pushing  out.  The  bitter-sweet  smiling  face 
under  smoldering  dark  hair  was  lit  by  flashes  from  the 
burning  blue  lake.  She  called  to  him  that  Marika  was 
in  town — at  Father  Jan's — ,  and  Stash  swung  on, 
scowling  and  knotting  his  hands  in  anger  over  this  new 
perplexity. 

II 

Now — as  often — his  impulse  was  to  seek  Marika  and 
talk  over  everything  with  her.  He  put  it  off,  however, 
until  evening,  when  he  found  the  Wacaser  Street 
maples  rushing  ominously  in  the  windy  darkness  above 
his  head,  as  if  they  traveled  fast  or  carried  trains  of 
storming  rumor.  One  pale  gas-light  in  Father  Dubrow- 
ski's  hall  lit  the  worn  brick  steps  for  Stash,  and  Marika 
led  him  into  a  large  dusk  room  where  a  cannel-coal  fire 
flickered .  in  volatile  gaseous  brightness  and  huge  oil 
paintings  sank  gleaming  into  the  walls. 

"Jennika  said  I  could  catch  you  here,"  Stash  apolo- 
gized in  a  gruff  murmur. 

"Yes — till  choir  practise,  and  that's  a  whole  half 
hour  yet." 

He  sat  down  uneasily,  ashamed  before  her  eager 
smile  to  begin  the  story  of  his  worries.  Nonetheless 
he  found  himself  telling  of  the  morning's  crash  in  the 
theatre,  and — somehow — omitting  Rose  Maddon's 
name.  He  sprang  up,  distrait  and  hesitating:  "I  think 
— if  I  could  talk  to  Fentree  about  it  .  .  . " 

"I  wish  you  could!"    Marika  frowned  anxiously. 

"I  went  up — and  saw  Tom  Shieling." 

"What  did  Tom  say?" 


MARIKA  OF  THE  CROSSROADS         215 

"Not  to  bother  Fen.  That  he's  almost  ruined  in  this 
Imbrie  coal  business  .  .  .  and  can't  see  anything 
straight.  ..." 

"I  can't  see  how  that  is — when  he's  buying  land 
around  Koban  for  his  company — with  lots  of  money  to 
pay." 

"That's  Maddon-Marantle's  company.  They're  pull- 
ing him  out  with  this  new  ...  I  don't  understand  it ! 
But  Shieling  thinks  that's  the  worst  thing  yet!  .  .  . 
He  says  there's  no  use  my  going  to  see  old  Jastrow 
either." 

"You  going  to  see  Jastrow !"  Marika  looked  up  in 
alarm. 

"Yes,  going  down  there  to-night — give  them  notice. 
But  Tom  says  Maddon  owns  Jastrow — that  old  Jas- 
trow'll  stop  all  this  business  the  minute  Maddon  presses 
a  buzzer — and  that  he'll  knuckle  it  hard,  Maddon  will, 
now  that  he  knows  .  .  .  since  he  knows  .  .  .  what 
happened  this  morning.  .  .  .  All  fool  talk.  I  told  him 
so.  But  he's  crazy  about  Fen — says  he's  going  down 
by  the  stern.  It's  all — all— his— 

"But,  Stash ! — you  won't  go  to  Jastrow's — and  start 
all  that  terrible  business  again!  .'  .  ." 

Stash  stared  frowningly  above  her  head,  his  gaze 
held  by  a  queer  movement  in  the  wall.  "Look!"  he 
said.  "They  come  out — and  go  back!" 

Marika  turned  to  look  at  the  tall  funereal  hats  of  a 
group  of  Polish  soldiery  stopping  at  a  wintry  hut. 

"It's  their  hats  mostly,"  said  Stash. 

"Their  czapkas,"  said  Marika,  "sometimes  they  seem 
to  be  like  ships — and  that  red  sunset  an  ocean — and 
those  ships  are  just  floating  towards  me  ...  it's  the 
coal  fire  lighting  the  picture." 

As  she  spoke  the  eccentric  blaze  flared  up,  and  those 


216      STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

hats  like  black  prowed  death-ships  seemed  to  surge  out 
on  a  crimson  sea  of  sunset.  Gloomy,  stormy  faces 
rode  beneath.  It  was  a  strange,  a  somehow  daunting 
picture.  Stash  tore  his  gaze  away  from  it,  and  as  if 
to  assert  his  power  of  resolution  declared  shortly :  "I'm 
going  now,  to  Jastrow's,  Rika." 

To  her  it  seemed  as  if  his  face  had  assumed  for  an 
instant  something  of  the  storminess  of  those  high 
boned  faces  beneath  the  death-ships.  He  had  caught 
something  from  them  that  belonged  to  him! — some- 
thing that  daunted  her — and  froze  the  plea  on  her  lips. 

He  turned  on  his  heel — paused — and  turning  back 
spoke  suddenly  and  resolutely:  "Rose  Maddon  was 
with  me  this  morning — when  that  border  fell.  She 
brought  me  downtown  in  her  car.  I  took  her  in  to 
see  the  old  place.  I  ought  to  have  located  the  car- 
penters first.  That's  what  makes  it  worse.  I  don't 
know  why  I  didn't  tell  you  at  first.  Ashamed  of  it  all, 
I  guess.  So — anyway — I'll  say  good-bye,  Rik!" 

He  gave  her  hand  a  short  hard  clasp,  and  was  gone 
— into  the  night — where  the  dark  trees  whistled — tell- 
ing of  storm  on  the  Lakes. 

Ill 

The  orchestrion  at  Jastrow's  was  trundling  out  its 
thunderous  music  when  Stash  pushed  through  the 
swing  door.  Old  Jastrow  lifted  his  granite,  coaly- 
seamed  face  from  his  newspaper.  Watery  glands  forced 
him  to  wipe  his  eyes,  which  were  cold  as  basement 
stones  where  water  always  trickles.  He  grunted  at 
Stash. 

It  was  this  grumbling  underground  menace  of  the 


MARIKA  OF  THE  CROSSROADS         217 

old  man  that  made  Stash  lean  across  the  bar  and  bark 
in  a  booming  voice :  "Where's  Sartos?" 

The  men  shaking  for  drinks  stopped  their  play  to 
watch. 

"In  the  back,"  said  Jastrow  mechanically. 

Stash  wheeled  through  where  the  orchestrion 
loomed;  its  colored  glass  mantle  of  blue  Caucasus 
mountain  peaks  and  pink  waterfalls  reared  majestic  in 
the  dinginess.  The  music  gushed  on :  a  surge  of  purple 
thunder  and  wheedling  carmine  tinklings.  A  billiard 
table  extending  from  it  with  the  bulbous  legs  of  jugger- 
naut affected  a  continuous  machine,  and  around  it  Sar- 
tos' gang  lounged  like  riders.  It  was  a  nasty  night  out- 
side. 

"Hello,  Sartos!"  said  Stash  in  ironic  greeting. 

The  little  man  raised  his  crumbled-in  face  and  mut- 
tered submissively :  "Hello,  Plaz." 

"I  went  out  to  see  my  brother  this  morning,"  said 
Stash,  "and  we'll  match  you  for  fun.  It'll  be  'in  the 
clear'  and  good-bye  to  Durand  for  the  bunch  that 
loses." 

"Oh,  no!"  said  Sartos,  grinning  aside  in  oblique  anx- 
iety, "that  was  a  mistake  this  morning.  Drumgoole 
gets  it  mixed.  He  thinks  we  still  got  a  comitadje  on 
you!" 

The  man  Drumgoole,  with  his  greenish  discolored 
face  flattened  out  to  mucous  shiny  red  lips  on  which  a 
cigarette  hung,  nodded  good-naturedly. 

Stash  eyed  this  turtle-face  sharply:  "That's  good! 
.  .  .  But  I  happen  to  know  you  hadn't  a  thing  to  do 
with  it,  Drumgoole." 

"Maybe  not!"  Sartos  scowled.  "I  say  a  mistake, 
don't  I? — Ain't  that  enough!" 

A  mistake.  .  .  .  Tom  Shieling  had  said  the  same. 


218     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

Rose  Maddon's  being  involved  made  it  a  hideous  slip 
of  the  established  machinery.  He  saw  the  grin  spread- 
ing from  the  reptilian  turtle-face  to  others. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  grinning  back  at  the  comical  de- 
pravity  of  Drumgoole's  face,  "it  always  will  be  a  mis- 
take. .  .  .  Remember  that."  Standing  back  a  step,  he 
challenged  them  with  eyes  narrowed  to  slits  of 
black.  .  .  .  He  saw  the  grins  twisting  and  drying  on 
their  faces ;  and  again  grimly  smiling  to  cover  his  own 
baffled  feeling  he  swung  through  the  mirrored  side- 
doors,  which  reflected  the  barbaric  discord  of  the  room, 
into  the  windy  night. 

As  he  flung  the  door  behind  him  Stash  felt  that  he 
had  been  defrauded  of  a  clear-out  defiance.  The  men- 
ace was  held  on  too  slippery  a  noose.  He  longed  to 
turn  to  Fentree.  But  what  if  Tom  Shieling  was  as 
right  about  Fen  as  he  had  been  about  Maddon-Maran- 
tle  and  Jastrow  ?  There  was  a  muffled  fury  of  business 
excitement  about  Fentree  like  the  quivering  haze 
around  machines.  He  would  smile  at  you  intently,  and 
miss  your  query.  Stash  admitted  with  a  sinking  of 
heart  that  Fentree  was  different. 


CHAPTER  VI 


After  his  interview  at  Jastrow's  Stash  had  a  piano 
installed  in  the  old  Alhambra  pit,  and  moved  in.  While 
the  carpenters  raised  a  resounding  tumult  he  worked 
on  a  group  of  songs  to  carry  the  color  of  his  Oriental 
setting. 

It  was  great  fun,  especially  on  rainy  Autumn  morn- 


MARIKA  OF  THE  CROSSROADS        219 

ings,  to  whistle  and  sing  and  finger  out  musical  themes, 
all  undisturbed  by  the  booming  of  hammers  and  the 
long  swish  of  rain  on  the  roof.  Wrapped  in  the  aure- 
ole of  his  cowl-light  he  seemed  to  roll  on  in  a  crystal  of 
his  own  conjuring,  within  a  larger  rolling  orb  of  the 
booming  building,  through  a  morning  of  storm.  To 
his  heated  brain  it  was  like  some  great  ship  of  majestic 
din. 

Then  came  bad  half  hours  when  he  discovered  some 
cadenza  to  be  mere  frothy  extravagance,  and  the  mu- 
sical rhythm  yawed  off  from  the  lyric's  rhythm ;  when 
at  last  he  must  spring  up  and  swagger  whistling  around 
the  pit  to  drive  off  his  depression  and  shame- faced  des- 
peration. 

Always  this  swaggering  challenge  brought  its  re- 
ward of  desperate  elation,  with  a  half  mad  yearning 
for  some  defiant  glory  just  dawning  through  the  dark- 
ness. .  .  .  He  would  turn  furiously  to  the  piano  and 
storm  off  rousing  gallantries  from  "The  Purple  High- 
way" or  "Such  a  Paprika  Princess" — or  plaintive  lit- 
tle Polish  songs  like  "O  Gwiadeczko!"  that  he  had 
learned  he  hardly  knew  when.  Visions  poured  through 
his  burning  head :  of  Rose  against  a  black  glossy  river 
at  the  Shabby  Lantern — of  Marika  smiling  through  a 
snowy  gust  of  spotlight  or  crying  with  caught-up  trem- 
bling lip  alone  on  Koban  Lake — of  mournful  czapka 
helmets  swelling  through  a  crimson  sunset  with  some 
splendid  dread  fate  for  him.  .  .  .  Suddenly  he  would 
turn  to  his  work  and  find  the  bravura  trick  to  slur  his 
phrase  into  step. 

And  so  the  thing  grew :  grew  while  he  played — furi- 
ously or  in  seeming  idleness — with  Bob  Dalhousie,  with 
Max  Dunrin — with  Rose. 


220     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 


ii 


There  was  a  prospect  of  help  from  Andre  too.  For 
Andre  had  come  home  to  assist  in  the  Fentrees'  new 
establishment.  The  Park  House  with  its  slate-blue 
roof  and  yard  of  forest  density  had  been  rented  by  a 
prospering  Fentree,  and  the  old  undesirable  neighbor- 
hood left  behind.  Unable  to  sell  the  smoky  lavender 
house,  Fentree  had  made  it  the  office  of  his  Koban  In- 
dustrial Company. 

To  Stash  the  Park  place  seemed  haunted  by  roman- 
tic memories.  And  as  he  guided  elephantine  vans  un- 
der threshing  maple  branches  on  that  blustery  fall 
morning  of  moving,  he  thought  the  storm-blue  roof 
looked  forbidding — as  though  it  had  some  secret  ten- 
ant to  guard :  A  little  princess  girl  had  lived  here  once : 
the  darkness  of  the  upper  halls  seemed  still  to  know  her. 

He  clattered  down  the  dusky  stairs  to  the  veranda, 
where  Bob  Dalhousie  was  helping  the  vanman  with  a 
bulky  buffet,  and  saw  across  the  lawn  a  horseback  fig- 
ure in  Hungarian  plum-red  habit  and  tricorne  hat  com- 
ing between  the  trees.  His  heart  leapt,  and  calling 
into  the  resounding  hall — "Rose  Maddon !" — he  waited 
for  her  greeting.  It  came  so  casually  and  off-hand,  as 
she  sprang  forward  to  kiss  Andre,  that  he  fell  into  a 
sudden  black  depression. 

A  little  later,  when  Mrs.  Fentree  and  the  girls  fol- 
lowed Bob  down  the  vine-strewn  walk,  Stash  caught 
the  chance  to  speak  to  Rose :  "I've  been  thinking,"  he 
murmured  in  a  low  voice,  "about  a  little  girl  in  Christ- 
mas church  alone,  and  how  her  eyes  looked !  .  .  .  Such 
a  blue!" 


MARIKA  OF  THE  CROSSROADS         221 

Rose  laughed,  flashing  him  a  starry  smile  in  the  hall 
gloom. 

"I  won't  stay  here  if  I've  got  to  put  up  with  that 
little  ghost  around!"  Stash  laughed  gruffly,  his  face 
suddenly  clenching  as  if  to  keep  back  some  storm  of 
feeling.  His  own  eyes  now  shone,  as  though  with 
angry  tears.  .  .  .  Startled — she  put  out  her  hand  as 
though  to  quiet  him,  and  speaking  vaguely,  hurriedly 
— "And  while  I  was  a  little  girl  here — you  were " 

"In  ol'  Koban  Hotel ! "  he  laughed  brusquely. 

"That  queer  old  place  in  the  dark  trees !"  There  was 
a  little  repellant  quiver  in  her  voice,  shot  with  tender- 
ness. 

Stash  frowned,  turning  his  dark  gaze  inward,  yet 
seeing  her  still  in  dusky  brilliance,  with  the  slant  of  a 
sunshaft  brightening  on  her  hair,  with  her  plum-colored 
habit  folding  purplish  shadows.  To  him  there  seemed 
a  strange  sadness  in  the  shaking  of  the  bright  wind  out- 
side. He  saw  Bob  leaning  through  the  wind  to  the  car 
crossing  and  Fentree  getting  off.  And  neither  said  a 
word :  facing  past  each  other,  yet  seeing  each  other  in 
a  timeless  clearness  that  held  a  mournful  sweet  antag- 
onism. 

Fentree  came  in  with  the  others.  His  thin  sallow 
face  with  silver-sharp  mustache  turned  in  delighted  sur- 
prise to  Rose: 

"I  didn't  know  we  got  Rose  with  the  house!  .  .  . 
Bargain  day,  Stash !" 

"Sad  luck  I  don't  go  with  it  t  Just  my  ghost.  Like 
the  faded  piano  spot  on  the  wall  paper." 

"I've  got  one  of  those  spots  over  at  the  old  house," 
said  Fentree,  "we  didn't  think  fit  to  move  it.  Too  old 
fashioned  for  Louise." 

Rose  smiled  over  at  Louise:     "I'll  always  like  this 


222     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

better  than  ours.  I  envy  you  the  grounds,  going  back 
to  the  creek." 

"A  castle  on  a  high  hill  cannot  be  hid,"  Fentree  mut- 
tered an  encouraging  paraphrase;  "but  you'll  have  to 
come  here  often!" 

"Yes  I — and  it'll  be  you  that'll  have  to  stand  on  the 
fence  and  coohoo  to  me  now !" 

"Oh,  dear,  yes!"  Fentree's  eyes  glowed  reminiscent. 
"As  if  I'd  ever  forget  that  wistful  little  lady  calling — 
'Hello,  Mr.  Fen!'  How  pretty  you  were  then,  Rose. 
You'll  never  come  up  to  it  again !" 

Rose  waved  him  a  mocking  "thank  you"  and  moved 
out  onto  the  veranda. 

in 

Stash  led  her  horse  through  the  Stewart-iron  gate 
and  paused  before  helping  her  on. 

She  lifted  a  serious  face:  "Stash — I've  asked  Ma- 
rika  for  to-morrow  night — to  my  rout  for  Andre.  .  .  . 
I  can't  ask  your  friend — that  Lady  Island  man — he's 
going  to  leave  Marika's  sister  awfully  hurt.  And  your 
little  Rika  will  feel  sad — and  that  gay  little  old  father, 
too.  .  .  .  Had  you  thought  about  it,  Stash?" 

He  confessed  that  he  had.  Her  words  stirred  a  tis- 
sue of  poignant  doubt  and  distress  in  his  mind.  And 
penetrating  this  was  a  new  feeling  about  Rose — a 
feeling  of  her  tender  understanding  beneath  a  gay  sur- 
face— a  feeling  too  of  her  unattainable  beauty.  He 
tried  to  explain  how  he  had  got  involved  with  Diblee. 
He  admitted  that  he  was  confused,  and  he  did  not  call 
down  his  old  solution  of  not  being  able  to  bother  about 
all  that. 

Her  small  fist  clutching  the  bridle  taunted  and  stung 
him  with  its  endearing  minuteness.  Her  position  so 


MARIKA  OF  THE  CROSSROADS         223 

far  above  young  Stan  Plazarski  he  had  always  care- 
lessly accepted,  merely  smiling  to  think  how  he  had 
coaxed  such  a  fortune's  darling  to  play  along  with  him. 
Now  for  the  first  time  the  thought  of  losing  her  dried 
his  throat  and  threw  his  hopes  and  plans  into  turmoil. 
If  he  could  only  say:  "Rose  Madder  in  a  Shining 
Spot — come  on  away  north  with  me!"  But  of  power 
such  as  money  gives  he  had  little  enough;  and  every 
mile  away  from  Durand  and  Koban  would  drag  heav- 
ier the  chains  that  bound  him  to  Marika  and  Varsh 
and  their  troubles,  and  now — it  seemed — Jennika's. 

He  scuffed  off  a  lichen  at  the  base  of  a  tree:  "I 
think  Andre  may  go  with  me  to-night  to  see  the  Sokol 
play  at  Koban — in  the  old  hotel.  I  wondered — I 
thought  you  wouldn't  care  to  go  to  that  old  hotel  where 
they're  giving  it.  ...  It's  so  black  looking  and  it's  a 
no  good  setting  for  you.  ..." 

"Why  .  .  .  Stash!"  She  looked  up  into  his  dark 
frowning  eyes. 

"You  said  yourself  it  was  a  queer  old  place,"  he 
laughed  abruptly,  "queer  old  place!"  It  was  as  if  he 
begged  her  angrily  to  show  that  she  did  not  credit  the 
dubious  and  shadowy  history  that  clouded  about  him 
and  his  queer  people.  His  head  was  bowed  in  shame 
and  fear  that  those  people,  his  friends,  were  not  in 
Rose's  world  at  all.  He  was  angry  for  Marika's  sake 
that  Rose  should  have  to  stoop  to  her — and  angry  with 
himself  for  his  shame  and  .fear. 

Rose  studied  the  big  bent  head  with  a  queer  repug- 
nant frown.  She  resented  his  angry  shame  that  thrust 
its  burden  harshly  on  her — resented  her  own  sense  of 
pity  for  the  big  strange  fellow — a  pity  embarrassing 
and  distressing  .  .  .  like  the  queer  tenderness  that 
stormed  up  in  her  at  sight  of  his  shining  bent  head. 


STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

"Stash "  she  murmured,  "are  you  going  to  help 

me  on?" 

He  held  out  a  big  trembling  hand  for  her  foot.  .  .  . 
She  saw  as  she  looked  down  from  her  saddle  that  his 
eyes  were  narrpwed  to  black  fanatic  slits  and  smiled 
with  a  show  of  her  old  surface  lightness :  "Go  with 
Andre  to-night,  and  forget  all  about  me  for  a  while, 
please.' ' 

He  heard  the  legato — staccato  of  her  animal's  hoofs 
sounding  down  the  windy  street,  and  called  hard  on 
the  resource  of  the  Glorious  Defiance,  whose  secret  he 
had  learned  in  the  musty  Alhambra  pit  on  mornings 
of  Autumn  storm. 


CHAPTER  VII 


It  was  that  evening  that  Rose  got  Marika's  message 
of  regret.  She  allowed  it  to  worry  her  till  after  dinner, 
and  suddenly  decided  to  drive  out  alone  and  see  Marika 
in  person. 

The  sun  had  fallen  low  in  a  ruddy  haze  when  she 
passed  Koban  Lake.  The  old  hotel  was  already  ablaze 
and  vaguely  busy,  and  even  the  hostinets  where  Rose 
stopped  showed  laughing  groups  that  had  come  in  for 
the  big  night.  It  gave  her  a  queer  feeling  when  she 
found  that  the  Varikas  had  left  the  crossroads  store, 
and  the  friendly  direction  of  a  jolly  dark  fellow  who 
came  forward  from  the  lavitza  hardly  lessened  her  in- 
imical out-of -place  feeling.  Passing  a  dim  tamarack 
cove  of  the  darkening  lake  she  abruptly  decided  to  turn 
back,  and  once  turned  she  could  hardly  go  fast  enough. 


MARIKA  OF  THE  CROSSROADS        225 

She  had  scarcely  passed  the  gloomy  osage  hedge  that 
ran  with  the  hotel  property  when  a  strange  figure  tore 
out  through  the  dusk  waving  fiercely.  For  just  an  in- 
stant it  looked  like  Stash — and  then  she  saw  that  it 
was  Varsh  in  his  "Dalibor"  costume.  Her  hands  were 
trembling  as  she  stopped. 

"Oh,  lady !"  he  muttered,  "they  won't  see !  .  .  .  You 
know  I  saw  you  goin'  up  ...  so  I  watched.  .  .  .  Oh, 
but  girl !  you  like  dat  Stash-a-boy !  .  .  .  Well,  see !  you 
know  he  likes  you,  heh  ? — Good  God,  girl !  I  guess  he 
does  a  lot — for  why  could  he  help  it!  ...  See,  if  you 
would  ask  him  to  take  dat  fellow  away — he  would  do 

it,  see,  he  would  do  it ! "  Smiling  distressingly  he 

rushed  on :  "Because  such  a  fellow  is  spoilin'  things 
here  .  .  .  takin'  dat  Jennika  away  from  me  an'  every- 
body .  .  .  for  why? "  He  begged  her  abruptly 

with  all  the  passion  of  his  mournful  once  merry  eyes  to 
tell  him  why. 

"Den  if  he  would  once  go  she  would  get  over  such 
a  strange  way.  .  .  .  Such  a  strange  way "  he  pant- 
ed whisperingly.  And  in  this  whisper  of  despairing 
wonder  was  the  picture  of  a  mocking  lost  Jennika,  drift- 
ing away  fast — fast ! 

"Her  father  an'  matter "  he  clutched  the  seat 

and  brought  his  rumpled  brown  head  closer,  "dey  think 
maybe  he  would  marry  her.  .  .  ."  Rose's  heart  was 

hammering  fiercely.  .  .  .  "But  I  say  no — oh,  no " 

His  eyes  were  shining  now  with  uncontrollable  tears, 
but  he  made  a  desperate  effort  with  his  lips  .  .  .  and 
smiled.  .  .  .  Timidly  grasping  one  of  her  hands  he 
hoarsed:  "Den  if  you  would  ask  him  ...  he  would 
do  it,  dat  Stash — he  would  find  de  way,  dat  boy !  .  .  . 
If  you  would  den  just  ask  him!  .  .  .  Say,  littlest  pretty 
girl  .  .  .  you  please!" 


226      STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

His  tears  were  gone;  he  was  smiling  a  despairing 
smile  wrenched  dry.  There  was  such  a  smarting  mist 
in  Rose's  eyes  that  it  was  hard  to  see  through  the  dusk. 
But  figures  were  approaching,  and  she  drew  her  hand 
away. 

"I'll  try  ..."  she  murmured  .  .  .  and  was  soon 
speeding  on,  past  Karshenko's  corner,  past  the  Valley 
Electric  bunk-houses,  and  alongside  the  dull  cool  gleam- 
ing of  Koban  Lake. 

n 

All  next  day — the  day  of  her  rout — Rose  seemed  to 
be  brushing  away  the  shadow  of  a  bad  dream.  .  .  . 
And  now  that  night  had  come  and  she  assured  herself 
as  she  walked  through  the  gala  lighted,  empty  rooms 
that  she  need  not  keep  her  promise  to  Varsh,  she  felt 
that  the  shadow  of  the  dream  had  come  around  Stash, 
clouding  the  debonair  grace  of  the  black  eyed  bronze- 
haired  boy  who  had  always  seemed  to  carry  a  flashing 
gay  sword  in  play  .  .  .  but  never  in  tumultuous  dark 
earnest.  .  .  .  Until — until  lately — until  yesterday 
morning. 

She  had  always  been  too  loyal  to  her  darling  whims 
to  be  snobbish.  What  was  there  in  Durand  to  be  snob- 
bish over?  But  independent  as  she  felt  of  it  all — there 
was  some  question  where  even  this  bizarre  world  could 
contain  the  crossroads  tragedies  of  Jennika  Varika  and 
Varsh  Plazarski.  Already  she  wondered  if  Stash  would 
appear  the  same  to  her ! 

She  crossed  the  freshly  polished  dancing  floor  and 
turned  down  the  west  hall  past  the  billiard  room  and 
her  father's  den  to  the  pilot-house  conservatory  which 
looked  out  across  the  purple  lake  of  night;  and  bend- 
ing to  see  that  the  dirt  from  a  water-swollen  orange 


MARIKA  OF  THE  CROSSROADS        227 

tub  had  been  cleaned  away  so  that  the  white  and  tuscan 
tessalatus  didn't  grit  under  foot,  she  returned  by  the 
same  way  and  passing  a  French  door  caught  a  full- 
length  reflection  of  herself  against  the  blue-black  night. 
Her  black  satin  gown  melted  into  mystic  dark — where 
floated  a  glossy  version  of  the  cornflower  blue  bodice 
edging  the  square  decollete.  She  smiled — as  at  some 
refreshing  personage  outside — and  with  a  thrill  of 
rising  verve  tossed  a  curt  bow  .  .  .  when  suddenly 
something  whispered  hoarsely — "Oh,  littlest  pretty 
girl!"  .  .  .  and  the  murmur  of  all  that  affair  which 
she  had  momentarily  forgotten  reverberated  in  return. 
.  .  .  She  stood  trembling — staring  at  herself  as  if  an- 
grily non-plussed.  She  clenched  her  hands  in  repudia- 
tion of  that  affair — and  of  Stash — and  a  little  in  hor- 
ror and  pity. 

in 

Fully  her  gay  marquise  self  when  Hugh  Marantle 
and  Louise  came,  she  showed  them  the  new  conserva- 
tory with  its  pilot-house  circle  of  great  windows  and 
helped  eagerly  in  locating  the  far  off  floating  lights. 

"A  Valley  Electric "  Marantle  pointed  out  a 

moving  yellow  crayon. 

"And  isn't  that  bunch  of  lights  off  there  the  Bowling 
Green  mines  ?"  Louise  inquired  eagerly. 

Rose's  surprised  glance  met  Hugh's.  .  .  .  Evidently 
Louise  didn't  yet  know  that  Bowling  Green  stood  for 
financial  disaster  and  humiliation  to  all  except  Imbrie, 
who  had  pulled  safely  out, — or  that  Fentree  had  been 
saved  by  Maddon-Marantle. 

The  belling  of  horns  under  the  porte-cochere  called 
Rose  down  the  hall,  where  she  halted  in  her  flight  to 


228      STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

catch  her  father's  curtly  muttered  command:  "Send 
young  Plazarski  in  to  me  when  he  comes." 

She  nodded,  and  with  a  slightly  hurried  heart-beat 
moved  on. 

It  happened  that  Stash  and  Andre  arrived  with  a 
large  group;  and  having  held  back  resolutely  while 
Rose  greeted  the  others,  Stash  abruptly  caught  her 
hand  and  walked  her  down  the  side  of  the  hall,  talking 
low  but  tumultuously. 

"Did  you  get  my  roses?"  he  asked  eagerly.  "Tell 
tne  what  sort  of  hat  you  wore  yesterday  morn- 
ing!  .  .  ." 

Rose  started  to  speak  and  caught  her  breath. 

"Mind  double  questions  like  that?  It's  your  own  in- 
vention, Rose.  You  used  to  dazzle  me  that  way.  But 
'our  Mr.  Plazarski'  the  pain-killer  'plugged  in'  and 
learned  double  entry." 

"Father  wants  to  see  you  a  minute.  ..."  She  was 
angry  with  the  tremor  in  her  voice.  His  abruptness 
had  not  only  carried  her  by  storm;  but  somehow  the 
flushed  knotted  forehead  and  brusque  black  eyes,  the 
vibration  of  his  voice  and  the  great  boyish  hand  thrilled 
her,  just  as  if  there  were  some  unique  audacity  in 
drawing  one  off  down  the  side  of  a  hall. 

"I'm  not  going  to  waste  time  on  him  now,"  said 
Stash,  "not  till  you  tell  me  what  that  hat " 

"A  tricorne,"  she  returned  crisply. 

"That's  the  name  for  your  best  looks  and  smiles !  I 
thought  it  would  be  a  pretty  name !  And  where  is  he 
now?" 

"Second  on  the  left  down  there — just  knock." 


MARIKA  OF  THE  CROSSROADS         229 


IV 


He  sped  down  the  hall  and  knocked  at  the  door.  The 
moment  he  entered  the  room  he  felt  that  he  was  on  the 
stand.  Tall  Clem  Marantle,  whose  easy  slouch  in  a 
big  leather  chair  made  him  look  more  than  ever  a 
South  American  man  of  mark,  let  a  quizzical,  ironical 
smile  drift  over  him. 

Maddon's  eyes  glinted  out  at  him  through  bushy 
brows:  "That's  right — sit  down!  We'll  get  to  the 
point  straight  away.  It's  this  idea  of  scoring  funny 
hits  on  well-known  men  in  town  .  .  .  you  could  easily 
push  that  too  far  in  your  ad  spectacle.  Can't  tell  where 
you  might  be  getting  in  a  damaging  wedge.  If  you  did 
— the  papers  would  thank  you  for  it  and  hammer  it  in. 
Especially  the  Tribune.  You  know  Marion,  don't  you  ? 
.  .  .  I  thought  so!  The  point  is — that  you've  been 
planning  this  with  your  tongues  in  your  cheeks — you 
and  Marion  and  Tom  Shieling!" 

Stash  sprang  up :  "Shieling  had  nothing  to  do  with 
it!" 

"Oh  .  .  .  arranged  between  you  and  Marion !  That's 
what  I  was  trying  to  get  at." 

Now  that  Stash  was  on  his  feet  he  wanted  to  break 
away,  but  he  felt  himself  caught.  He  opened  his  lips 
— closed  them — stepped  back  as  if  for  clearer  action. 
Marantle's  dry  dark  eyes  seemed  to  be  twinkling  all 
over  him  ironically.  Both  men  looked  so  grossly  indo- 
lent sprawled  below  him.  Suspicions  seethed  through 
his  head.  They  were  trying  to  get  something  on  Ma- 
rion .  .  .  through  him.  .  .  .  Suddenly  there  sprang 
alight  a  revealing  flare  of  intuition !  He  had  dared  too 
far  on  his  acquaintance  with  Rose  Maddon — and  her 


230     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

father  had  determined  to  break  it  off  abruptly! — and 
incidentally  to  deal  a  rebuff  to  Marion.  He  cleared 
his  throat  hoarsely: 

"What's  the  use  of  all  this!  You  know  I  couldn't 
do  you  any  damage !  You're  getting  at  something  else 
— underhand !  Well,  I'll  see  the  play  through !  Every 
tag!  The  theatre  lease  is  in  my  name !  I'll  go  on!  I'll 
put  on  something  else!  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do — I'll 
hand  over  the  script,  and  you  can  run  it  without  the 
little  things  that  hurt  your  feelings!  But  if  I  go  on 
with  it — it  goes  just  as  it  is!"  He  felt  an  exultant 
defiance  in  carrying  the  war  into  the  enemy's  chosen 
country. 

"I  think  Cardroy  was  satisfied  with  your  layout — as 
you  showed  it  to  him,"  Maddon  spoke  in  disconcerting 
commonplace,  as  if  nothing  had  happened;  "it  doesn't 
seem  fair  to  you  to  take  it  over.  .  .  .  But  you've  stat- 
ed your  own  terms,  and  I  always  like  to  meet  a  man 
on  his  own  ground."  With  equally  disconcerting  swift- 
ness he  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  looking  at  his  watch 
said:  "I'll  give  you  just  an  hour  to  decide  whether 
you'll  stick  to  that.  Ill  be  here." 

Again  Stash  carried  the  fight — and  this  time  deeper 
— into  the  enemy's  country.  Feeling  himself  towering 
above  the  shorter  man,  he  said  smilingly:  "In  an 
hour?  .  .  .  But  in  an  hour  I  might  be  dancing  .  .  . 
with  Rose.  ...  I'd  never  stop  then  for  anything!" 

Apparently  he  had  struck  fire.  The  square  little  man 
advanced  suddenly:  "If  you're  not  panhandling  for 
someone  bigger  than  you,"  he  threw  out  harshly, 
"you're  working  hard  for  yourself !  And  you  can  tell 
your  superior  that  we've  short  circuited  his  line  of  bur- 
lesque!" 

"That's  funny!"  Stash  exclaimed.     "That's  some- 


MARIKA  OF  THE  CROSSROADS         231 

thing  like  the  word  I  sent  your  fellows  at  Jastrow's 
when  they  tried  to  play  a  dirty  trick  on  me  at  the 
Alhambra!" 

He  knew  well  that  Maddon  knew — that  Rose  had 
been  with  him  that  morning — that  the  trick  might  have 
horribly  involved  her.  The  eyebrows  had  so  lowered 
that  Stash  could  hardly  see  the  glint  of  the  eyes.  He 
made  a  long  arm  for  the  door — paused  to  look  back 
grimly — and  swung  out. 


His  head  was  in  an  extravagant  whirl  of  defiance 
and  wild  schemes.  On  his  way  to  Rose  the  mad  inspira- 
tion seized  him  to  insure  himself  of  a  dance  with  her 
on  the  hour's  end. 

"It's  mighty  mysterious,"  he  whispered,  "and  I'll  tell 
you  afterward  why! — but  I  must  be  dancing  with  you 
on  the  hour! — the  mystic  hour,  you  know — just  must! 
You  know  you  cheated  me  not  to  wear  one  o'  my 
roses !" 

"It  would  have  looked  too — too  premiere  danseuse 
with  this  gown,  Stash.  But  wait — I  may  satisfy  you!" 

"You  could  have  carried  it  around,  sort  o'  torturing 
it  in  your  hands." 

"But  wait!"  Who  knows? — I  can  be  mysterious 
too!" 

In  the  end  she  consented  to  give  him  the  fourth  and 
fifth  if  he  could  get  Dunrin  and  Tragressor  to  yield 
them. 

Stash  attended  to  this  matter  while  the  first  glis- 
sandos  toppled  from  tuning  violins ;  then  wandered  out 
onto  the  balustraded  terrace.  A  warm  wind  was  blow- 
ing, smooth  and  velvet  dark — and  like  Rose  Maddon's 
gown.  Once  he  caught  her  profile  passing  the  double 


STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

French  doors — a  daring  gallant  profile.  Different 
from  Marika's.  You  liked  Marika  best  looking  her 
full  in  the  face — when  one  lip  lifted  oddly  as  if  caught 
up  at  the  corner,  and  the  eye  on  that  side  crinkled  more 
than  the  other.  Why  couldn't  he  understand  Marika 
lately?  He  had  fumed  a  little  over  her  refusal  to  come 
to-night. 

He  lit  a  cigarette,  inhaled  a  breath  and  threw  it  away. 
He  wanted  to  be  alone  in  order  to  think  things  out; 
but,  strangely  enough,  he  could  do  no  thinking. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


After  a  vague  whirl  with  Stella  Tragressor,  Stash 
came  to  his  dance  with  Rose,  and  the  first  thing  he  no- 
ticed was  an  odd  glow  of  red  that  seemed  to  throb 
under  the  lace  at  her  breast,  indefinite  against  the  blue 
lining.  His  voice  shook :  "I  thought  that  colored  edge 
was  blue." 

"It's  cornflower,"  Rose  laughed  lightly. 

"I  didn't  know  cornflower  was  red!" 

"Maybe  you  think  Killarney  roses  are  green." 

The  waltz  ran  on,  fringed  with  a  tangled  bijouterie 
of  wistful  tinklings,  like  a  gay  marquee  where  gallant 
officers  mount  to  cross  the  portico  of  dreamland. 

''Laska  a  zvuot  v  Vidnl!' '  Stash  murmured — 
"  'Love  and  Life  in  Vienna! '  " 

"  'L' Amour  et  La  Vie'  >  .  .  say  it  slashy  and  foreign 
again,  Stash,"  she  begged  eagerly;  "it  sounds  like  a 
slashy  caress !" 

So  Stash  muttered  again  the  Slavic  words  like  a 


MARIKA  OF  THE  CROSSROADS        233 

"slashy  caress" — and  the  waltz  twinkled  on  to  a  rococo 
close. 

Now  as  he  led  her  towards  the  balustrade  he  glanced 
back  through  the  French  doors  and  saw  Clem  Marantle 
and  John  Maddon  standing  on  the  stair  gallery.  His 
throat  tightened  with  the  thumping  pulse  of  triumph. 
How  had  he  happened  on  the  beautiful  inspiration  to 
time  his  dance  with  Rose  to  the  challenge  of  his  words! 

He  was  sure  now  that  Maddon  had  linked  him  with 
the  revolting  forces  of  the  town  and  had  determined 
to  remove  him  from  all  approach  to  Rose.  To-night 
perhaps  would  be  the  last. 

"Are  you  going  to  be  going  back — over  there — 
Rose?"  ' 

"But  of  course.  See  here  though — you  were  going 
to  tell  me  why  we  had  to  dance  on  the  hour !  Myste- 
rious reasons  to  the  front !" 

"I  can't  just  now.  I'm — so  stirred  up!  I  feel — 
with  this  warm  wind  and  everything — that  I'm  full  of 
excitement  and  wine  in  wicker  bashticks!  In  a  min- 
ute I'll  tell  you.  .  .  .  You  remember  you  weren't  com- 
ing back  here  till  your  father  built  a  new  house  ?" 

"I  haven't  chopped  down  the  tower,  either,  have  I  ? 
But  I've  learned  that  a  house  can  be  a  perfect  curio  if 
only  you  don't  build  it  that  way  yourself.  You  soften 
it  down  a  little — and  there  it  is! — all  the  better  for 

having  a  story  with  it ! She  stopped  abruptly,  for 

it  had  flashed  back  to  mind  that  Stash  was  in  that  story 
— Stash  and  his  queer  people. 

Others  were  drifting  out  into  the  enchanted  warmth 
of  the  night,  chattering  and  laughing.  Rose  spoke 

softly :  "And  you  can't  tell  me  because  you're  so  stirred 

._  3» 
up : 

"I  can  tell,  of  course! "  he  muttered.     "I've 


234     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

thrown  over  the  masque.  Your  father's  angry  because, 
he  says,  I  was  mixed  up  with  Marion  and  Shieling  in  a 
political  burlesque.  Of  course  I  wasn't.  But  he  put  it 
in  such  a  way  that  I  couldn't  deny  without  explaining 
— explaining — and  feeling  like  a  kicked  topper  at  the 
end.  And — all  of  a  sudden  I  saw  that  that  was  what 
he  wanted  me  to  feel!  I  told  him  they  could  run  the 
thing  as  they  pleased.  I'd  keep  the  house  and  put  on 
something  else.  He  gave  me  an  hour  to  think  it  over, 
he  said,  and  told  me  to  come  back  in  that  time.  I  told 
him  I  might  be  dancing  with  you — and  it  would  never 
do  to  stop!"  In  spite  of  him  a  gruff  laugh  rose  in  his 
throat.  "So  you  see  why  I've  got  a  feeling  of  'last 
night  I  was  happy,  Maxine;  the  music  was  divine!' — 
mixed  up  with — thunder! — with  a  feeling  that  it's 
maybe  all  over! — and  that  I'm  ready" — his  voice  fell  to 
a  harsh  whisper — "to  do  something  crazy,  to  think  it's 
all  ended!" 

Rose's  heart  was  beating  fast. 

"If  he's  scheming  to  keep  me  away  from  you — feel- 
ing I'm  not  good  enough  for  you — all  right,  I'll  go  on 
away!  If  it  was  just  a  political  fight,  I'd  stay  on  and 
smash  it  through — Jastrow  or  no  Jastrow!" 

That  name  started  a  beating  in  Rose's  frightened 
mind.  She  could  see  that  her  father  had  made  a  curt 
determination  to  brush  young  Plazarski  out  of  his  path 
— and  hers!  .  .  .  Whether  Stash  had  been  guilty  of 
any  real  offense  to  him  made  no  difference.  Her  heart 
burned  against  the  ruthless  force  that  would  be  turned 
against  Stash — burned  the  more  so  that  she  knew  he 
would  try  to  smash  it  through — and  because — because 
she  had  been  turning  on  him  so  lately  her  own  angered 
and  repellant  suspicion!  Trying  to  keep  her  voice 
fixed  and  even,  she  asked : 


MARIKA  OF  THE  CROSSROADS         235 

"How  was  Dalibor  last  night?" 

"Oh,  it  would  have  made  you  smile,"  he  answered, 
"but  Karshenko  was  a  wonder.  He'd  make  a  rioting 
old  Devilshoof!" 

"And  Jennika?" 

"She  was  all  right — but  Varsh  played  off  a  wild  old 
opposition.  If  he'd  learned  his  lines " 

Her  voice  vibrated  queerly  in  her  ears :  "You  must 
do  something  for  him.  He's  in  horrible  misery!  .  .  . 
or  he  wouldn't  have  come  out  to  me  last  night — 
when  I  drove  by." 

"He  did!" 

"And  begged  me  to  ask  you  to  get  Diblee  away.  .  .  . 
A  long  time  ago  I  promised  to  dare  you — and  I  guess 
this  is  it,  Stash!  It's  hard  to  do,  but  you  can  ask  him 
.  .  .  for  her  sake  .  .  .  and  your  brother's  .  .  .  and 
for  Marika's." 

Stash  was  thrilled  with  angry  terror  to  think  this 
business  had  been  thrust  in  Rose's  face.  "I'll  speak  to 
him — I'll  do  something!"  he  muttered.  "I  promise!  I'll 
do  anything  you  say  is  right,  except  to  run  him  out  of 
town  or  hire  a  gang  to  lay  him  up  at  Jastrow's." 

That  name  came  again  like  a  chill  to  Rose's  hot 
heart :  "That's — that's  the  old  saloon  where  that  hor- 
ribly grand  music  goes  on  all  the  time?  .  .  .  Are  they 
the  ones  that  were  trying  to  hurt  you  that  morning  at 
the  Alhambra?" 

"Sure,"  said  Stash;  "all  the  rough  ones  rendezvous 
at  Jastrow's.  I  suppose  they'll  be  after  me  now  I've 
gone  against  the  combine." 

"The  combine?  .  .  ." 

"Maddon-Marantle,"  Stash  muttered,  brusquely  apol- 
ogetic. 

"Oh — I  thought  you  meant  a  theatrical  combine. 


236     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

.  .  .  You  don't  mean  that  they  would  take  away  your 
protection  ?" 

"I  don't  want  any  protection,"  Stash  laughed  un- 
steadily. "I  want  to  fight  it  through !" — his  eyes  shone 
in  the  semi-darkness — "that's  a  game  that  I  can  play — 
with  Varsh  and  Shieling  and  Marion  to  help — I  can 
make  it  a  smashing  go !  He  can't  hurt  me  that  way — 
your  father — when  I'm  on  my  guard — but  he  can  take 
you  away!"  he  ended  abruptly,  harshly 

"I  promise  you!"  she  spoke  impulsively,  "that  I 
won't  let  him  use  me  to  punish  you!  I  won't  leave  till 
I'm  sure  of  that.  I'll — I'll  help  you  any  way  I  can !" 

"Listen!"  Stash  grasped  her  hand  in  an  iron  grip;  he 
was  mastered  by  a  new  and  tremendous  madness.  "Will 
you  do  something — will  you  sing  for  me  in  the  play  I 
put  on?  .  .  .  The  Alhambra's  still  mine!  I'll  spend 
every  cent  I  have,  and  get  backing  from  Mac!  But 
Rose — I'll  never  bother  you  by  coming  here.  I 
would  only  see  you  in  the  crowd.  But  that  would  be 
enough !" 

"I  can't  tell  you  now — • — "  her  breath  coming  fast — 
"I'll  try  to  tell  you  later!" 

They  hurried  in,  but  Stash  had  no  partner  for  the 
dance  and  walked  outdoors  again,  feeling  freer  in  the 
soft  flowing  darkness. 

ii 

In  the  thronging  confusion  of  his  mind  one  thing 
was  clear:  his  desire  to  show  Maddon-Marantle  that 
in  flinging  the  lash  around  him  they  had  tangled  them- 
selves with  a  hard  case !  He  would  get  some  reckless 
men  around  him :  for  instance,  the  stripling  Stevo 
Kucin,  who  had  been  a  comitadje  in  old  Serbia.  .  .  . 
Well,  there  was  no  limit  to  his  schemes ! 


MARIKA  OF  THE  CROSSROADS         237 

He  wondered  with  an  aching  sweet  thrill  if  she  had 
really  tucked  one  of  his  roses  into  the  bodice  of  that 
dainty  gown ;  and  this  thrill  merged  into  a  horrible  cha- 
grin that  Varsh's  muddle  had  been  pressed  on  her. 

He  made  it  a  point  of  honor  to  stay  away  from  her 
the  rest  of  the  evening,  thinking  he  saw  or  felt  a 
charming  appreciation  in  her  far  off,  shining  manner. 
Each  glimpse  of  her  small  dark-gowned  figure  drew  a 
tingling  hurt  across  his  heart  like  a  savage  slur  from 
Ban's  black  bow.  Toward  the  end  he  caught  a  few 
words  with  her,  and  suddenly  begged  for  his  rose. 

"Do  you  think  you  could  catch  it,"  she  whispered 
impulsively,  her  eyes  shining  like  salt-sprayed  lazuli, 
"if  I  tossed  it  from  the  stairway  window?  .  .  .  like  a 
play,  Stash,  like  a  play!  .  .  .  Besides,  I  can't  pull  it 
out  here.  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  yes,  but  sure !  .  .  .  I'll  slip  back  by  the  win- 
dow when  this  crowd's  gone !" 

"But  if  I  do  ...  it  will  be  my  answer  about  the 
play!" 

He  thought  he  saw  in  her  eyes  that  she  had  decided. 
And  yet — as  he  ran  back,  after  making  his  excuse  to 
Hugh  and  the  girls  that  he  had  forgotten  something — 
he  was  breathing  fast  for  fear  that  she  wouldn't  dare  to 
decide  for  him.  .  .  . 

The  last  of  the  stream  of  cars  had  crunched  away. 
Groping  in  the  darkness,  he  found  the  rose  on  the 
grass.  It  carried  a  shred  of  torn  silk  .  .  .  she  had 
been  hurried  or  startled.  He  crushed  it  to  his  face  as 
he  ran,  trying  to  catch  a  fragrance  that  was  not  the 
flower's,  and  found  it  eluding  him  in  the  freshening 
chill  that  had  come  with  the  morning  wind — now  whis- 
pering in  the  trees. 


BOOK  SEVEN:     THE  BOHEMIAN 
GIRL 

CHAPTER  I 


The  fast  following  days  were  crowded  with  plans 
and  maneuverings.  Stash  lived  in  a  furious  turmoil. 
Balfe's  famous  old  opera,  'The  Bohemian  Girl,"  was 
promised  for  the  Alhambra  opening,  with  Rose  Mad- 
don  and  Stanislaw  Plazarski  on  the  toplines. 

It  marked  the  beginning  of  a  big  advertising  cam- 
paign, to  which  Marion  had  pledged  himself  after  hear- 
ing Stash's  story.  Stash  put  all  his  savings  into  a 
drawing  account  and  wrote  McCandlish.  The  big  man, 
who  hardly  ever  wrote,  wired  back :  "Take  your  own 
gait.  When  you're  through  begin  on  me."  This  mes- 
sage gave  Stash  a  victorious  moment. 

Rose  Maddon  came  to  the  first  rehearsal  with  a 
slightly  preoccupied  but  intrepid  air.  At  the  first  chance 
Stash  hurried  her  aside  to  ask  anxiously  if  it  had  been 
very  hard. 

Rose  smiled  with  a  little  frosting  of  the  blue  eyes: 
"I  told  him  I  had  promised — that  was  all.  Yes,  and  I 
said  I  had  never  broken  a  promise  for  just  a  notion  of 
my  own.  Then  asked  him — must  I  break  one  for 
his." 

239 


240     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

"Rascal  gun-runner  you! — did  you  do  it  that  way? 
Just  like  he  tied  me  up;  only  you  used  it  first.  And 
did " 

"You  mustn't  ask  me  any  more,"  she  returned  crisp- 
ly ;  "I've  said  too  much  already." 

"I  took  a  bum  cue!"  Stash  cut  an  angry  gesture 
with  his  fist.  "Forgive  me,  won't  you  ?" 

She  nodded  quickly,  murmuring:  "There's  so 
much " 

There  was  so  much!  There  was  often  an  indescriba- 
ble din  in  the  big  cavern.  Kucin  was  always  standing 
about  with  a  gravity  of  dark  watchful  eyes ;  he  and  one 
other  young  night  watchman  slept  in  the  house.  It  was 
no  secret  that  they  were  armed. 

Tom  Shieling,  who  kept  in  close  touch  with  Stash 
and  Kucin,  stood  ready  to  swear  out  a  warrant  if  any 
palpable  offence  could  be  connected  with  Sartos'  gang 
or  other  Jastrow  men. 

Yet  in  the  main,  this  latent  alarm,  the  squat  gravity 
of  the  gilded  cavern,  the  watchful,  scorched  bronze 
head  of  Kucin  peering  gravely  out  of  shadowy  corners, 
brought  them  together  in  an  arm-to-arm  feeling  of 
holding  a  dangerous  tenure  under  storm.  Scarcely  a 
time  in  those  first  two  weeks  was  it  so  discouraging 
but  that  this  powerfully  youthful  romantic  emotion 
could  assert  its  illusion  over  them,  making  them  feel 
that  there  had  never  been  such  esprit  as  inhabited  the 
tenants  of  the  dubious  old  Alhambra  stronghold. 


n 

Hardly  a  day  passed  without  some  "fat"  notice  in 
Bill  Marion's  paper.  Among  other  things  Stash's  ex- 
periment with  the  blacksmith  Karshenko  made  good 


copy.  He  had  caught  Karsh  and  Varsh  on  the  lake 
road  one  noon,  and  the  blacksmith's  elation  over  his 
chance  to  sing  before  a  big  crowd  in  town  tormented 
him  so  that  he  was  almost  at  wits-end.  Tearing  off 
his  hat,  he  looked  down  as  if  surveying  himself : 

"Me  the  Devilshoof ! — me,  Maxim  Karshenko — the 
Devil?"  He  struck  Varsh  on  the  chest  mischievously 
—but  not  softly :  "Me— Karsh— the  Devil !" 

Varsh  staggered  from  Karsh's  buffet.  He  too  was 
exultantly  happy.  He  saw  Stash  through  a  light  of 
untold  gratitude  and  affection.  The  "tall  fellow"  had 
not  been  around  the  lake  for  a  week,  and  Varsh  credit- 
ed this  disappearance  to  his  young  brother.  And  yet 
he  did  not  dare  to  thank  him  the  way  he  longed  to,  for\ 
that  young  brother  had  grown  so  much  like  a  business 
man. 

It  was  a  stifled  excited  group  that  hung  in  the  wings 
the  day  of  Karsh's  try-out,  while  Karsh  in  six  feet  of 
best  black  clothes  stood  gyrating  his  shoulders  in  swag- 
gering awkwardness  unconquerable.  Useless  for  them 
to  stifle  their  sniggers,  for  Karsh  knew  they  were  laugh- 
ing at  him.  But  once  he  began  trolling  out  "In  the 
Gipsies'  Life"  they  ceased  their  whispering.  There  was 
no  discussion  when  it  was  over.  He  knew  that  he  had 
passed  inspection,  and  swaggered  over  to  the  group 
where  old  "Bobby"  Stiles — whom  Stash  had  down 
from  Chicago  to  sing  Count  Arnheim — was  making 
the  gesture  of  placing  a  wreath  on  his  head. 

By  the  second  day  Karsh  was  calling  the  veteran 
Stiles  "boy" — and  brought  with  him  some  of  the  Ko- 
ban  Lake  boys,  who  rolled  in  like  the  hurly-burly  co- 
horts of  Czech-land.  In  jaunty  postures  of  privileged 
characters  they  held  loud  argument  before  rehearsal 
began.  The  truth  was  that  they  were  acting.  On  a 


STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

stage  of  their  own  conceit  and  love  for  their  romantic 
homeland  Bohemia,  which  they  saw  rising  into  untold 
glamour  from  out  this  dusty  bin.  They  assured  Stash 
that  the  best  view  of  Hradcany  Hill  was  from  Jelini 
Prokop !  One  remembered  a  night  of  snow  storm  when 
Prague  Castle  had  loomed  up  so  and  so.  ...  If  Stash 
would  only  have  such  a  scene^  with  snow  falling  and 
the  Vlatava  river  in  flood — ah,  what  a  scene !  .  .  .  And 
for  another! — the  Graben  and  the  sidewalk  cafes  with 
the  pretty  girls!  Never  was  a  play  produced  with  so 
much  expert  advice  in  immediate  reach. 

It  was  a  matter  of  unholy  joy  for  Forrest  (Bobby) 
Stiles,  who  pantomimed  his  outrageous  pleasure  from 
behind  a  convenient  flat,  for  Andre's  and  Rose  Mad- 
don's  sparkling  eyes. 

"I'd  have  to  be  a  conjurer  to  satisfy  those  fellows!" 
Stash  snorted  his  relief  when  they  were  gone. 

Max  Dunrin  laughed :  "Why  didn't  you  tell  them, 
Pal,  that  sidewalk  cafes  in  a  flood  were  out  of  your 
line,  but  you  might  manage  the  pretty  girls !" 

Such  was  the  extravagance  of  those  days,  in  which 
extravagance  was  a  joy  and  a  relief  from  worry  and 
concern. 

in 

One  warm  still  noon  when  Kucin  had  finished  his 
lunch  in  the  box-office  he  caught  Stash  aside  and,  scowl- 
ing his  bronzed  young  face,  muttered:  "I  say — I  say 
dat  girl  would  sing  if  you  would  ask  .  .  .  yes,  ask 
again,  because  she  is  sad  for  something !" 

"You  mean  Marika?" 

"Sure — yes!"  Kucin  answered  with  a  flash  of  pro- 
testing anger  .  .  .  how  could  this  happy  fortunate  fel- 


THE  BOHEMIAN  GIRL  243 

low  help  but  know  that  she  was  sorrowing  for  him  to 
ask  her — ask  her  again? 

A  flash  of  intuition  and  remorse  told  Stash  what 
the  bronzed  young  Carniolan  had  sacrificed  to  ask  him. 
That  evening  he  got  a  boat  at  the  Koban  Hotel  boat- 
house  and  rowed  across  the  lake  in  the  September  eve- 
ning dusk.  He  had  to  listen  to  Varika's  excited  talk 
of:  "New  electric  lines  dis  side  de  lake — wid  facto- 
ries !  Bezdeks  an'  Shabbatas  sell  a  strip  to  Mist  Fen. 
It's  a  company  dat  will  make  de  land  all  more  valuable 
aroun'  here." 

When  he  could  get  away,  Stash  drew  Marika  down 
to  the  lake  shore  among  the  sycamores.  "Marika,"  he 
said,  "listen :  why  won't  you  help  me  out  on  the  chorus. 
It's  hard  to  get  good  voices.  And  I've  made  some  of 
them  mad,  and  they've  talked  to  their  friends.  Be- 
sides ...  I  want  you,  because  ..." 

She  waited  silently. 

"Because  you're  about  the  best  friend  I've  got." 

The  words  carried  away  from  him  mockingly  into 
the  rustling  silence.  Far  off  on  the  lake  the  pit-pat  of 
an  invisible  gas-launch  sounded. 

"If  you  want  me — I  will,"  Marika  conceded  in  a  low 
voice. 

"I  do!"  said  Stash.  "We  don't  cross  hands  any 
more,  Rika ;  we  don't  talk  like  we  used  to.  I'm  so  busy. 
And  with  you  .  .  .  maybe  it  hasn't  worked  out  like 
you  expected  over  here.  I  can  see — with  the  railroad 
coming,  and  things  changing." 

"Can  you  see,  Stash!"  Her  voice  leapt  out  in  inten- 
sity of  denial — or  hidden  hope;  in  a  strange  cry  that 
rang  in  his  heart  long  after  he  had  crossed  the  lake 
and  ridden  into  town. 


244      STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 
CHAPTER  II 


A  heavy  night  fog  dimmed  the  copper  armour  of  the 
lobby  doors  of  the  old  Alhambra.  Even  the  electric 
block  letters — THE  BOHEMIAN  GIRL — seemed  bedded 
like  barettes  in  bluish  jeweller's  cotton. 

The  interior  was  dimly  lighted,  and  even  here  the 
fog  seeped  in.  The  young  electrician,  who  was  send' 
ing  jets  of  cheery  whistling  into  the  region  of  the  gal- 
lery tiers,  felt  the  effect  when  he  stopped :  "H-m-m !" 
he  spoke  to  no  one  in  particular,  "my  throat  is  just  per- 
fectly owful  to-night!"  And  no  one  in  particular,  who 
happened  to  be  Kucin's  Serb  friend  Sereef,  merely 
stood  watching  with  his  solemn  brown  eyes.  "Ain't 
that  so,  Frenchy?"  the  electrician  questioned.  He  was 
well  satisfied  with  himself  to-night.  His  light  schedule 
had  been  the  only  thing  that  hadn't  "gagged"  at  dress 
rehearsal  the  night  before. 

Stash  stood  chuckling  and  talking  with  Charlie  Dal- 
housie  in  the  box  office.  He  was  in  a  mood  of  exulta- 
tion. The  receipts  had  run  away  ahead  of  forecast. 
His  organization  of  defence  with  Kucin  in  lead  had 
prevented  any  serious  trouble.  The  shadow  of  some- 
thing vague  and  ominous  under  which  they  had  worked 
for  three  weeks  had  almost  lifted  at  last. 

Kucin  slid  in  through  the  fog  smoking  doorway  and 
handed  Stash  a  slip  of  yellow  legal-tablet.  It  was 
signed  by  Tom  Shieling  and  said :  "If  anything  hap- 
pens tell  Rika  that  I  have  followed  them." 

"Them!"  Stash  muttered  angrily  .  .  .  then  in  a 
flash  .  .  .  "Jennika  and  Diblee!"  With  a  slow  mes- 


THE  BOHEMIAN  GIRL  245 

meric  motion  he  shoved  the  paper  into  his  pocket.  Back 
of  him  the  house  seemed  immensely  still,  like  a  fog- 
filled  vault,  except  for  aft  occasional  far  off  booming  of 
hammer  and  phantom  whistling. 


ii 

The  curtain  was  due  to  ring  up  in  a  few  minutes. 
There  was  a  veritable  waiting  line  at  the  back-stage 
peephole.  Count  Arnheim's  guard  in  their  frost-blue 
uniforms  occupied  themselves  with  mustache  twiddling 
m  the  final  pause.  The  alley  door  swung  open  and  fog 
twisted  in  like  a  breath  of  snow  above  the  Christmas- 
colored  throng.  .  .  .  Kucin  stood  looking  round  for 
Stash. 

Dunrin  pointed  his  pearl-colored  shako  with  its  blue 
pom  at  a  tall  gray  figure  in  hussar  boots.  Rose  Mad- 
don  saw  this  figure  spring  right-about  and  motion  to- 
wards the  alley  with  a  savage  squared  cap  like  a  sawed- 
down  czapka.  She  edged  forward,  a  dolicho-blond 
gipsy  in  short  red  skirt  and  flashing  bolero. 

"It's  nothing!" — a  hussar-booted  Stash  turned  back 
brusquely.  "Some  of  the  bunch  Rudy  Ruzika  spotted 
are  hanging  round  the  alley.  Rudy  wants  to  fight,  but 
Kucin  will  hold  him  in."  He  thrust  his  hand  back 
through  his  Polish  tuft  with  an  impatient  gesture :  "I'd 
like  to  get  out  there !" 

Rose  brought  over  the  baby  girl  who  filled  the  role 
of  tiny  Arlene,  and  pushing  the  baby  hand  into  Stash's 
with  trembling  playfulness  whispered :  "You  hold  him 
from  going  out  there!" 

Stash  looked  down,  his  dark  eyes  twinkling,  and 
suddenly  stooped  and  swung  her  up  into  his  arms.  She 
clutched  his  shoulder  knot  and  settled  against  his 


246     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

shoulder.  He  paraded  his  small  prize  among  the  proud 
grenadiers  and  ladies,  resigning  her  finally  to  Buda, 
the  nurse. 

The  curtain  rolled  up  as  the  hunter's  chorus  crashed 
out  joyously:  "Up  with  the  Banner!'' 


CHAPTER  III 


The  Fentrees  were  in  orchestra  seats.  Fentree 
glanced  up  at  the  balcony  where  he  saw  a  crowd  of 
smiling,  chattering  Czechs,  waiting  eagerly  for  the  cur- 
tain to  rise. 

High  up  near  the  gold  and  cerulean  ceiling  sat  a 
woman  with  a  blue  and  pink  hat  making  a  covert  of 
gloom  for  startling  black  eyes  that  almost,  thus  hidden, 
reached  an  effect  of  wild  beauty.  But  the  crumbled- 
in  white  cheeks  showed  the  exaggerated  Polish  cheek 
bones  like  a  death's-head.  .  .  .  From  up  here  it  was 
like  looking  down  into  the  pit  of  a  powerhouse.  The 
shining  bellies  of  violins  and  cellos  were  like  throbbing 
machines.  The  polished  bows  flashed  over  them — 
quivering — as  if  waiting  for  a  stronger  surge  of  power 
from  that  squat  generator,  the  kettle  drum.  There 
were  moments  when  it  seemed  that  she  might  fall  for- 
ward and  be  thrashed  to  pieces  down  there;  but  this 
was  such  a  mental  vagary  as  she  was  used  to.  ... 
Behind  her  shaking  program  she  drew  in  with  a  short 
fierce  breath  the  pinch  of  white  powder  drawn  from  a 
paper  in  her  hand-bag.  Then  with  gnawing  eagerness 
consulted  her  program  again  where  the  black-letter 
Stanislaw  Plazarski  glared  like  sharp  twisted  music. 


THE  BOHEMIAN  GIRL  247 

The  overture  had  begun.  The  heat,  the  perfume  of  the 
ushers'  atomizers  and  the  warm  crowd,  rising  to  the 
ceiling,  seemed  to  stop  her  breath.  As  the  lights  dark- 
ened, that  perfume  seemed  like  a  gas  thrown  off  by 
those  throbbing  machines,  which  was  lifting  the  house 
like  a  balloon — up — up! 

More  lights  fell  off — and  through  the  darkness  she 
saw  that  terrifying  sweet  music  coiling  in  violet  and 
green  folds.  She  had  ceased  to  rise — but  swayed  out 
into  another  dimension  where  she  saw  things  from  all 
around — instead  of  but  one  side.  ...  A  far  off 
thunder  carried  the  curtain  aloft  .  .  .  and  in  a  pale 
blue  flood  of  early  morning  the  stage  lifted  up  to  her 
.  .  .  and  a  storm  of  youthful  voices  burst  against  her 
face  like  a  moving  rich  wind.  "Up  with  the  Banner!" 

It  was  all  so  starry  clear  down  there :  like  puppet 
soldiers  of  a  kingdom  in  her  brain,  she  thought  she 
could  shift  them  about.  She  did.  But  the  union  of 
color  and  sound  made  it  hard  to  separate  one  thing 
and  savor  it  intensely.  .  .  And  she  must  be  able  to  fix 
on  just  one  thing — when  he  came  on. 

Those  swaying  boys  in  frosty,  Christmas-blue  uni- 
forms were  fine  and  splendid,  and  the  girls  like  dolls 
with  beautiful  lined  eyebrows  and  flashing  eyes.  .  .  . 
Just  a  stage  of  course.  .  .  .  Yet  it  reminded  her  of  a 
Christmas  in  Roslogi  when  a  little  girl,  in  Poland.  .  .  . 
That  became  the  present  and  this  stage  the  past.  .  .  . 
Frantically  she  inverted  them,  and  brought  the  pres- 
ent forward.  .  .  . 

ii 

The  baby  girl  with  the  bright  hair  is  carried  off;  the 
guardsmen  troop  away.  .  .  .  Suddenly  there  on  the 
bright  empty  stage  a  tall  spindling  figure  staggers  out. 


248     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

Her  heart  hammers  so  that  she  can  hardly  steady  the 
vision.  He  tears  off  the  savage,  black  hat  and  shows 
the  close  cut  Polish  tuft.  Ah,  beyond  a  doubt!  .  .  . 
But  if  she  could  see  him  better!  .  .  .  fiercer!  .  .  . 
through  that  frittering  brilliance  of  vision.  She  found 
herself  on  her  feet,  and  sank  back  panting.  .  .  .  He 
was  singing. 

The  voice  rang  hoarsely — fitting  the  Polish  exile's 
exhausted  entrance.  But  that  hoarseness,  which  was 
the  voice's  fault,  thrilled  her  with  the  terrifying  rever- 
beration of  a  Stash  taller,  stronger,  more  splendid  than 
she  had  ever  dreamed  he  would  be.  Gipsies  like  bril- 
liant colored  insects  suddenly  surrounded  him,  robbing 
him.  His  voice  like  a  savage  chime  rolled  up  to  her, 
rolled  a  sweet  doom  through  her  sinking,  dying 
heart.  .  .  . 

Behind  the  raging  gipsy  chief,  with  the  stolen 
Arlene  in  his  arms,  the  bridge  fell  crashing — in  a 
shiver  of  blue  sparklets — to  the  br-r-oum-br-r-oum  of 
that  squat  generator  of  thunder  in  the  pit.  A  sigh 
waved  over  the  house;  merged  in  the  falling  of  the 
curtain. 

in 

Behind  the  curtain  the  ground  sheets  rumbled  into 
line — for  the  street-fair  scene.  Stash  ran  up  the  alley 
and  finding  Kucin  on  steady  watch  came  back  to  Rose 
Maddon  with  the  damp  air  still  fresh  on  his  gipsy 
costume. 

"Feeling  fine,  aren't  you  ?"  he  asked  anxiously. 

"Yes,  but  tired  as  though  I  had  been  all  through, 
instead  of  just  beginning." 

"That's  from  being  screwed  up  so  long.  There's  a 
dropped  feeling  just  before  you  go  on." 


THE  BOHEMIAN  GIRL 

"I  wish  I  had  as  much  spirit  to  throw  away  as  you. 
I  believe  you'd  rather  something  happened  out  there 
than  not!  You've  enjoyed  all  that  danger  this  last 
month.  I  think  I  knew  you  enjoyed  it  that  morning 
the  channel  fell." 

"I  think  I'd  like  a  drag-out  fight  with  Florestein 
right  in  the  middle  of  next!"  he  admitted,  grinning. 

Rose  smiled  a  little  quizzically,  a  little  enigmatically, 
and  he  turned  to  hunt  up  Marika.  He  was  a  little 
startled  to  hear  Marika  speak  of  Rose. 

"Yes,  she  does  look  mighty  pretty,"  he  responded, 
angry  with  himself  for  his  conscious  effort  to  use  an 
off-hand  tone. 

Florestein  and  a  tall  blue  Hussar  brushed  past  them 
in  the  narrow  entrance,  singing  under  their  breath : 

"When  Florestein 
Sings  'Wine!    Wine!' 
I'll  swear  he  means  it!" 

They  broke  off  for  a  piece  of  waggish  business,  in 
which  "Bobby"  Stiles  demanded  a  rehearsal  of  Flore- 
stein's  slapping.  .  .  .  Arlene  made  a  wicked  but  airy 
pass  at  his  foolish  face.  .  .  .  The  curtain  reefed  up 
with  its  faintly  ominous  rumble. 

rv 

Rose  Maddon  as  Arlene  now  slept  by  the  gipsy  tilt- 
wagon  in  the  glow  of  a  flickering  camp-fire,  and  Tad- 
deus,  the  young  Polish  exile,  watched  over  her. 

In  that  haunted  light  of  woodland  mystery  the 
stolen  little  royal  lady  woke  to  sing  her  song  of  well- 
dreamed  memories.  And  the  melody,  like  her  dream, 
spiraled  back  into  echoing  halls  of  wistful  grandeur — 


250     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

up  dreamy  stairways — dying  away  in  yearning  for 
the  face  that  had  been  missing  there: 

"'But  I  also  dreampt 

Which  charmed  me  most — 

That  you  loved  me  still  the  same — 

That  you  loved  me — 

You  loved  me  still — 

The  same!'" 

And  Taddeus  then,  lifting  his  head  higher  as  if 
proud  of  the  very  desolation  of  his  costume — like  the 
glorious  tatters  of  a  sea-change — caught  Arlene's 
hands  and  drew  her  to  him.  In  that  moment  all  the 
confusion,  menace  and  worry  of  the  past  week  sank 
from  Stash's  mind.  .  .  .  He  stood  with  his  arm  about 
Arlene  and  listened  with  bowed  head.  .  .  .  The  old 
naive  sweet  song  swelled  free  again,  and  on  a  darkened 
stage  Rose  Maddon  stood  alone  in  a  golden  spot  .  .  . 
and  Stash  Plazarski  on  the  rainbow  rim  beside  her. 


Marynia  Cardoul,  watching  that  spot,  felt  that  there 
was  an  immense  white  crystal  mounted  in  her  fore- 
head, and  that  Stash  and  the  beautiful  little  lady  were 
vibrating  there.  Her  heart  was  singing,  crying.  His 
big,  hawked  face  was  somehow  graced  and  softened 
by  the  light ;  his  Polish  tuft  flared  back  in  a  grandiose 
curve,  reminding  her  of  ...  yes,  of  Bolish,  Bolish! 
...  A  gust  of  darkening  memory  blew  out  the  crys- 
tal, and  she  found  herself  sobbing  violently  with  con- 
vulsive dry  sobs  in  the  darkness. 

Someone,  seeing  her  agitation,  offered  her  a  pair  of 
clumsy  marine  glasses,  but  she  was  unable  to  hold  them 
steady  enough  to  see.  She  was  somehow  fearfully 


THE  BOHEMIAN  GIRL  251 

happy.  The  perverse  bitter  effort  that  had  brought 
her  to  Detroit  first,  and  then  here,  had  given  her  this 
height  of  dream,  where  the  very  ecstasy  seemed  to 
purify  the  past  and  promise  an  escape  from  the  name- 
less horror  beyond. 


CHAPTER  IV 


Back-stage  there  was  a  relief  from  tension.  The 
egg-shell-blue  Hussars  and  the  Court  ladies  felt  a  tide 
of  high  spirits  rising  round  them.  Some  sang  in  low 
rumbling  voices  the  trifling  ballad  of  Stiles'  invention : 

"When  Florestein 
Sings  Wine!    Wine!' 
I'll  swear  he  means  it ! — 
It's  not  an  empty  song: 
What  then  redeems  it? — 
But  wine !  wine !  wine! — 
When  the  play  is  done 
And  Arlene  queens  it!  ... 
Eh— Florestein !  .  .  ." 

Stash  had  on  again  his  Hussar  boots,  which  it  would 
seem  he  had  trod  in  carefully  during  the  twelve  years 
of  intermission.  He  shouldered  down  the  gangway 
to  Arlene 's  side,  who  wore  a  peau  de  sole  of  French 
lilac  color  in  Empire  suavity. 

"And  Arlene  queens  it!"  whispered  Stash.  "Will  you 
go  with  me,  Rose  Madder,  afterward?  .  .  .  Petrie 
and  Farrander  have  sent  out  word  to  Velvar's.  I 
won't  go  unless  I  can  take  my  tricorne-flower  girl 
along.  It  may  be  the  last.  .  .  ." 

She  hesitated. 


252      STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

"You'll  be  going  .  .  .  and  I'll  be  gone  .  .  .  and 
Lord  knows  where  I'll  run  across  my  cornflower  gun- 
runner again!" 

She  raised  a  daring  smile  and  nodded. 


ii 

A  rumor  of  disorder  boomed  behind  them,  and  turn- 
ing quickly  they  saw  the  alley  door  swing  open  and 
Rudy  Ruzika's  broad  grinning  face  in  the  mist.  He 
beckoned  with  drunken  assurance  .  .  .  and  another 
face  came  into  the  blanched  circle  of  the  outside  lamp. 
.  .  .  Bewildered  yet  ferocious  by  flashes  as  he 
lurched  forward  .  .  .  the  face  was  Varsh.  They  came 
blundering  in  with  the  booming  breathing  of  drunken 
men. 

For  a  moment  Varsh  stared  round,  dazzled  by  daunt- 
ing guardsmen  and  beautiful  bright  girls.  He  threw 
out  his  arms  as  if  to  appeal  to  them.  But  Stash  flung 
an  arm  across  his  shoulder  and  swung  him  to  the 
wall.  In  an  instant  Varsh  hurled  free: 

"No  you  don'!  Stash-a-boy !"  His  voice  boomed 
like  thunder  it  seemed  to  Stash.  Varsh's  eye  had 
caught  Rose's,  and  his  frenzied  mind  struck  fire:  "I 
would  tell  you  how  you  helped,  littlest  girl,"  he  began 
bravely,  "but — that  big  one,  Christ  damn  him!  he 
come  back!  .  .  ."  His  throat  clicked  and  he  seemed 
about  to  cry. 

Stash  heard  his  own  voice  calling  hoarsely: 
"Karsh!"  He  saw  Karshenko  lunge  forward — but 
stop  distressed  before  Varsh's  savage  glare :  "No,  you 
won' !"  His  voice  rang  roaring  in  the  narrow  gangway, 
"So  I  could  kill  you  all!"  He  stared  about  him  for 


THE  BOHEMIAN  GIRL  253 

the  effect  of  this,  half  astounded  by  his  own  terrible 
words. 

In  that  moment  Stash  took  the  one  chance  his  own 
horror-stricken  mind  suggested  and  hurled  himself 
upon  the  frenzied  man.  It  was  such  a  struggle  that 
no  one  could  help.  Swaying  from  side  to  side  of  the 
gangway  it  crashed  through  the  door. 

The  cold  air  whistled  like  fire  to  Stash's  heated 
brain,  and  getting  an  iron  in-grip  on  Varsh's  coat  he 
hurled  him  with  all  his  strength  headlong  down  the 
rough  boarding  of  the  alley.  He  stood  just  long 
enough  to  see  Varsh  raise  himself  and  lurch  against 
the  trickling  dead-wall,  and  then  sprang  back  into  the 
crowded  gangway. 

He  stared  about  him — strangely  like  Varsh  had  first 
stood.  To  Rose  Maddon  there  was  a  horrifying  re- 
semblance. Then  with  a  hoarse,  harsh  voice — "Go 
on!" — he  rushed  to  his  dressing-room. 


in 

His  chin  was  broken  and  bleeding.  He  dabbed  it 
with  alcohol  and  clotted  it  with  powder ;  working  with 
a  dry,  dead  mind,  blasted  it  seemed  by  an  incredible 
shame.  It  was  all  over — everything.  He  pushed  back 
his  Polish  tuft  and  smoothed  his  sleeves.  To  stop  now 
would  be  madness  for  his  beating  head.  He  could  only 
go  on.  The  curtain  had  rung  up. 

As  he  left  the  room  he  saw  the  crumpled  paper  Tom 
had  sent  and  snatched  it  up.  All  the  terrible  riddle 
of  his  shame  seemed  to  lie  in  that  yellow  paper.  Frag- 
ments of  sinister  meaning  whirled  through  his  head, 
only  to  make  him  feel  the  spider-web  horror  of  the 
town  which  had  crushed  him  once  more: — Sartos — 


254 

Jastrow's — the  ironic  Marantle  face — Whaleback's 
Castle — Maddon's  glittering  eyes; — and  then — Rose 
Maddon  singing  Arlene! — a  hundred  echoing  hours 
ago! — Oh,  Rose!  ...  He  dropped  swiftly  down  the 
iron  stairs  and  appeared  among  the  groups  in  the 
wings — stony  faced.  One  or  two  glanced  aside  at  him, 
but  turned  quickly  back  to  watch  Arlene — sitting  alone 
in  her  castle  room,  dreaming  sadly  over  her  gipsy  dress 
and  the  lost  charm  of  other  days. 

IV 

Across  the  black  cramped  figures  and  bale-fire  of  the 
orchestra,  across  the  shimmering  house — like  a  heat 
wave — danced  the  tremor  of  Arlene's  hot  longing  for 
the  past.  It  choked  Marynia  Cardoul.  She  longed 
to  cry  for  her  own  tortured  past  which  even  in  its 
dark  spots  looked  bright  enough  now. 

It  was  like  a  burst  of  dawn  for  her  when  Taddeus 
came  on.  But  almost  at  once  a  frightful  distraction 
seized  her.  A  harsh  defiance  in  his  singing  thrilled  her 
with  the  fear  that  she  had  been  merely  dreaming.  .  .  . 
She  half  rose  from  her  seat  and  fell  back  again.  She 
had  exhausted  the  false  power  that  had  brought  her 
to  this  height  and  furnished  it  out  with  glory.  She 
fumbled  in  her  hand-bag  helplessly. 

Then  like  a  burst  of  storm-light  the  thrill  of  fear 
turned  to  one  of  glory.  The  whole  house,  it  seemed 
to  her,  began  to  tremble  with  the  hoarse  voice  that — 
charging  higher — sent  echoes  crying  away  like  birds 
beating  stormily  on  to  darkened  horizons: 

."Then  you'll  remember — 
You'll  remember  me!  .  .  ." 


THE  BOHEMIAN  GIRL  255 

The  house — as  if  shocked  and  saddened — did  not 
respond;  but  watched  a  little  uneasily  the  distracted 
gipsy  queen's  exposure  of  Taddeus'  presence  alone 
with  Arlene.  Devilshoofs  antics  added  a  distorting 
stress.  Someone  in  the  gallery  laughed  falteringly — 
a  little  wildly.  .  .  . 

It  was  Marynia  Cardoul.  She  knew  at  last  that 
something  was  wrong  with  Stash.  In  the  rush  to  hide 
from  the  stage  guests  he  had  broken  open  the  cut  on 
his  chin  and  a  trickle  of  blood  marked  a  red  crease  on 
his  knotted  face.  A  horror  of  some  unknown  end 
shook  her.  But  a  triumph  awaited  Taddeus. 

He  proclaimed  Arlene  free  from  any  low  love  for 
a  gipsy  stroller  and  himself  Count  Taddeus  of  Poland 
by  virtue  of  patents  which  he  bore.  A  fear  tore 
through  his  mind  that  he  had  forgotten  the  paper  that 
served  that  office.  At  the  last  minute  he  remembered 
the  yellow  note  that  he  had  thrust  into  his  tunic.  As 
he  commenced  to  sing  he  felt  that  he  had  mounted  to 
the  last  high  peak  of  defiance — a  defiance  full  of 
strange  glory : 

"When  the  fair  land 

Of  Poland 
Was  trod  by  the  hoof 

Of  the  ruthless  invader— 
When  Might— 

With  spear  to  the  bosom 

And  flame  to  the  roof 
Completed  her  triumph 

O'er  Right!— 
In  that  moment  of  danger 

When  Freedom  invoked 
All  the  fetterless  sons 

Of  her  pride ! — 
In  brave  ranks  as  dauntless 

As  Freedom  e'er  yoked — 
I  fought— and  I  fell 

By  Her  side!" 


256     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

The  words  rang  on,  like  the  mounting  of  lofty 
bronze  helmets  to  a  high  Parade. 

"My  birth  is  noble — 

Unstained  my  crest! 
As  is  thine  own — 

Let  this  attest !  .  .  ." 

He  did  not  release  but  held  in  his  extended  hand  the 
paper  on  which  Tom  Shieling  had  written :  "Tell  Rika 
I  am  following  them." 

The  house  in  conversion  to  his  mood  thrust  out  in 
catspaws  of  applause — merging  into  a  concerted  swell. 
Turning  to  them  he  sang  again — as  if  he  made  his  last 
call  on  the  Glorious  Defiance. 


Marynia  Cardoul  felt  the  lighted  house  vanishing 
away  from  her.  Her  heart  was  rocking  like  an  engine 
too  strong  to  hold.  That  machinery  of  black  beetle 
men  in  the  pit  had  wound  herself  and  Stash  to  an 
unendurable  tension.  .  .  .  And  then  .  .  .  had  she 
screamed?  .  .  .  They  were  trying  to  kill  him! — the 
red  spangled  woman  with  the  knife.  People  were  star- 
ing angrily  at  her.  She  wras  on  her  feet  and  struggling 
to  get  out.  She  knew  that  she  had  strength  enough  to 
get  around  through  the  alley — as  she  had  somewhere 
— at  the  Frontenac — to  see  what  had  made  that  terrible 
change  in  him.  .  .  .  And  if  she  had  shamed  him  .  .  . 
she  would  kill  herself !  .  .  .  Oh,  but  then,  if  he  would 
only  say  some  word  to  her !  .  .  . 

Her  heart  pounded  so.  It  was  easier  to  lean  against 
the  alley  wall  and  so  move  on.  A  rumble  like  an  un- 
derground railway  shook  the  building  .  .  .  the  audi- 


THE  BOHEMIAN  GIRL  257 

ence  moving  out.  Below  the  aureoled  light  at  the  stage 
door  a  couple  tall  Hussars  lounged  out  to  smoke.  In 
a  moment  she  had  pushed  past  these  staring  fellows 
and  muttered  hoarsely  to  the  fireman  who  seemed  to 
bar  the  way  to  her.  .  .  .  Suddenly — there  before  her 
loomed  Stash.  .  .  .  Beyond,  the  golden  girl  was  turn- 
ing away — but  stopped  with  frightened  face  .  .  . 
Stash  too  seemed  startled,  the  bloody  cleft  on  his  chin 
darkening  as  his  face  grew  white. 

She  moved  forward  with  vague  glazed  smile  .  .  . 
eager  to  ease  his  mind  ...  to  tell  him.  .  .  .  She 
reached  vaguely  towards  his  big  hand — lifting  to  his 
throat,  and  saw — that  he  was  gray  with  horror — of 

her!  .  .  .  "Oh! "  she  gasped  hoarsely.  He  had 

never  towered  so  splendidly  before  her!  "Stash!" — 
she  held  out  her  hands — partly  to  him,  partly  to  keep 
herself  from  falling.  He  pulled  back  with  a  harsh 
shapeless  sound  and  burst  away.  .  .  .  The  fireman 
caught  her  by  one  arm.  .  .  . 

She  caught  sight  of  his  bronze  head  mounting  the 
stairway,  and  turning  let  the  fireman  lead  her  out  into 
the  alley. 

CHAPTER  V 


At  Shabbona  station  Stash  learned  that  a  woman 
with  a  blue  and  pink  hat  had  taken  a  northbound  train. 
Because  they  described  her  as  a  sick  woman  he  seemed 
to  see  her  lying  horrible  and  pitiful  on  the  dirty  yellow 
benches.  .  .  . 

The  old  station  was  part  of  his  life.  He  had  been 
so  boyishly  confident  on  that  long-ago  morning  when 


258     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

he  had  left  Detroit:  as  bright  as  sunshine  he  saw  the 
gala  pink  and  blue  hat  with  the  smiling  face  of  Rynia 
dropping  back — swiftly  back !  It  twisted  his  throat  like 
a  tourniquet.  He  saw  now  how  she  had  longed  to  keep 
him — but  had  sent  him  on  to  separate  him  from  the 
dark  road  they  were  going.  .  .  .  And  then  to-night 
when  she  had  come  back  for  one  last  word  before 
sinking  into  what  swimming  horror  he  dared  not 
vision,  then,  then  he  had  pulled  away  from  her.  If  he 
could  only  take  back  that  gesture  of  repulsion!  At 
such  moments  he  kept  his  face  away  from  Kucin,  who 
had  followed  him  to  the  station,  to  hide  his  grimace 
of  anger  and  horrible  grief. 

That  dark  young  fellow  released  him  with  a  last 
iron  hand  pressure,  losing  the  white  face  almost  in- 
stantly in  the  condensing  steam  that  coiled  through  the 
train  vestibules. 

II 

It  was  still  dark  as  the  train  whirled  on  into  the 
North — the  North  which  had  brimmed  his  boyish  brain 
with  azure  dreams; — and  it  seemed  as  if  he  were  pass- 
ing beyond  the  bounds  of  life  into  a  land  of  unknown 
cold  and  mist  and  a  half -life  of  dreary  shadows.  With 
face  against  the  window  he  saw  the  pallid  lighted 
stretches  of  Shabbona  and  Wacaser  slip  back.  A  heart 
sickening  rush  of  the  night's  memories  pressed  for- 
ward. He  saw  uniforms  like  the  blurred  blue-green  of 
passing  streets;  saw  Louise  and  Marika,  vividly  mov- 
ing in  darkling  eyes  and  dainty  forms — and  Rose  so 
golden  grained  and  shining,  with  dark  eyebrows  and 
oval-pointed  smile.  He  heard  her  voice  echoing  through 
walls  of  a  dead  and  saddened  fairyland.  He  heard 
the  mocking  voices  of  Petrie  and  Dunrin — "When  the 


THE  BOHEMIAN  GIRL  259 

play  is  done  and  Arlene  queens  it,  eh — Florestein!" 
.  .  .  The  engine  whistled  far  ahead — chiming  bleakly 
as  it  scoured  on  into  the  dark  marsh-lands — towards 
the  Lakes.  .  .  .  How  long  ago,  how  long  ago  it 
seemed ! 

In  those  last  moments  in  the  dressing-room  he  had 
been  unable  to  crush  the  sick  wonder  if  Rose  would  be 
waiting  for  him.  But  she  had  gone — fled.  It  was 
Marika  who  had  clung  to  his  hand — and  sent  Kucin 
after  him.  It  brought  a  hot  convulsion  to  his  breast 
that  eased  him  like  a  scorching  compress.  Ah, 
Marika!  He  saw  her  and  those  crossroads  friends  as 
so  real  and  dear  amidst  a  shifting,  swirling  world  of 
inimical  half  real  people — like  shadows  of  the  stretch- 
ing night  outside. 

Gradually  the  darkness  lifted  from  the  ashen  shapes 
that  guard  the  Lake.  The  dunes  seemed  lighted  by 
some  dusk  secret  lamp.  And  a  little  later  his  burning 
eyes  turned  dully  to  a  flame  of  blue  that  was  the  Great 
Lake  in  splendid  morning  gleaming. 


BOOK  EIGHT:     FLYING  GLORY 

CHAPTER  I 


Detroit.  .  .  .  Stash  had  slept  a  little  on  the  train, 
but  wakened  under  the  mystification  of  a  great  city 
that  seemed  to  his  blurred  burning  mind  more  like 
some  splendid  promising  dream  than  a  place  of  real 
people. 

He  turned  to  a  part  of  town  where  cheap  hotels  fig- 
ured under  names  such  as  Avena,  Luxor  and  St. 
Charles,  such  hotels  as  advertise  in  the  want  columns 
vaguely  as  "strictly  first  class" — sickeningly  preten- 
tious names  and  desperately  run  down  surroundings, 
where  the  nadir  of  melancholy  can  be  antagonized  by 
a  sick  mind,  which  perversely  finds  in  such  places  some- 
thing like  a  dim  melodious  grandeur  of  desolation. 
An  instinct  told  Stash  that  if  he  could  find  his  mother 
anywhere  it  would  be  in  such  a  region  as  this. 

He  took  a  room  in  the  New  Excelsior — which  vainly 
assumed  that  there  had  been  a  shabbier,  less  dingy  gray 
and  older  Excelsior,  with  dirtier  Nottingham  lace  cur- 
tains dabbling  at  its  windows;  and  slept  throughout 
the  afternoon.  .  .  .  He  sprang  to  his  feet  as  if  to  es- 
cape from  a  haunted  world  where  beautiful  friendly 
faces  were  going  the  dark  way  of  dreams  with  strange 
unknowing  smiles;  and  found  himself  facing  a  more 

261 


262      STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

devastating  fantasia  of  reality:  for  wandering  out  on 
the  dusking  streets  he  saw  his  own  once  beautiful 
mother  sinking,  even  now  sinking  into  unthinkable 
swimming  vaults  of  horror. 

He  walked  on  and  on;  out  through  portals  of  hud- 
dled brown  buildings  into  wide  sweeping  avenues  with 
sleeking  motors  swirling  into  misty  depths;  on  past 
wider  sweeping  foyers  where  lights  were  cropping 
out  in  dwindling  prospect ;  on  toward  the  serene  green- 
ish rotunda  of  the  turquoise  west,  where  he  saw  a  star 
as  white  as  the  cryptic  beacon  on  another  world  shore. 

There  was  no  one  in  the  city  whom  he  cared  to  face. 
He  passed  a  small  theatrical  hotel  at  the  lower  end 
of  Cadillac  Square,  where  an  automatic  piano  was 
storming  off  furious  silvery  roulades;  and  sat  on  an 
iron  bench  near  by.  Dusk  was  coming  fast,  and  far 
off  through  the  hushing  murmur  of  the  spreading  city 
he  heard  the  prolonged  booming  of  a  Lake  leviathan 
— like  a  ponderous  bell  that  is  stroked  rather  than 
rung.  His  thoughts  ran  back  to  the  night  on  the  danc- 
ing pier  when  he  had  promised  Rose  Maddon  non- 
chalantly that  he  would  come  back  to  Durand  to  handle 
the  Ad  Masque.  He  shrank  in  on  himself  before  that 
picture.  What  a  report  he  would  have  to  make  to 
McCandlish!  He  did  not  know  that  Andre  would 
soon  be  giving  the  ticket  jobber  a  story  of  the  Alham- 
bra  opening  and  of  Taddeus  that  was  far  from  one  of 
failure,  and  that  before  the  week  was  over  they  would 
be  searching  the  city  for  him. 

II 

His  thought  now  was  to  see  Nadelka.  In  a  flutter- 
ing dimness  of  vision  he  boarded  a  car  at  the  Pon- 


FLYING  GLORY  263 

chartrain  corner.  His  face  must  have  startled  Na- 
delka,  for  she  hurried  him  over  to  a  dark  corner  table : 

"You  seem  to  be  queer  when  you  come  in — I'd  a 
said  'shot' !"  She  laughed  and  ran  on  in  her  curving 
way,  white  shoulders  alternately  hunched  against  her 
black  hair:  "I  was  admire  you  when  I  hear  about 
your  hit  in  the  big  Mac  theatre,  and  if  I  had  know 
then  it  was  the  same  boy  I  use  to  know  I  would  have 
try  to  see  you." 

Stash  clenched  his  teeth  desperately  and  asked 
gravely:  "Delka,  do  you  know — have  you  seen  my 
mother  lately?" 

Her  face  Hushed  slightly  and  she  looked  aside : 
"No — no!"  She  had  evidently  heard  something  since 
that  night  last  summer,  but  what  it  was  she  would  not 
be  pleased  to  tell.  Fear  filled  Stash  as  with  a  strange 
tingling  liquor.  "Good-bye,"  he  said  rather  wildly, 
"good-night — I'll — maybe  I'll  see  you  again." 

He  found  his  way  back  to  the  New  Excelsior,  and 
threw  himself  on  the  dingy,  mussed-up  bed.  His 
shoulders  moved  with  long,  sobbing  breaths;  but  he 
was  not  crying — at  least  not  his  spirit; — that  moved 
aside  as  if  to  leave  his  body  struggling  for  the  damp 
air  that  seeped  through  the  lace  curtains;  that  stood 
off  wondering  and  dazed,  and  joining  now  and  then  in 
a  passionate  convulsion  with  his  shaking  shoulders. 

in 

He  slept  far  into  the  next  morning,  and  finding  a 
new  grimness  of  usage  started  out  to  wander  the  sec- 
tions of  the  city  that  he  thought  she  might  travel.  The 
thought  of  food  made  him  sick;  but  it  was  after  he  had 
eaten  a  little  and  felt  its  feverish  stimulation  that  he 


264      STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

allowed  himself  to  dream  of  how  he  would  meet  her. 
Just  so,  he  would  say — "Rynia — Rynia !"  His  hands 
went  out — his  eyes  burned — he  presented  the  uncon- 
scious picture  of  a  big  blind  boy  with  hacked-out  fea- 
tures lifted  eagerly  and  hands  starting  before  him  in 
an  anguish  of  fancy  that  he  was  learning  at  last  to 
see.  .  .  . 

But  reaction  came  and  with  it  the  drab  desperation 
of  such  a  search.  A  new  disease  of  powerlessness 
was  seeping  into  the  corners  of  his  so  confident  soul 
— which  had  always  taken  its  aims  with  a  rush. 

Among  the  old  haunts  was  the  Frontenac.  He 
found  himself  in  the  alley  talking  to  the  door-keeper, 
who  told  him  he  was  looking  bad. 

"Somebody  was  askin'  for  you  the  other  day,"  he 
continued.  "She  says,  'Has  anyone  seen  Pally  Plazar- 
ski  ? — I  havn't  seen  him  for  a  year.'  Zylda's  her  name. 
She's  in  a  tabloid  on  this  week's.  Say !  it's  a  tab  with 
the  razzibo  an'  zazz!" 

Stash  knitted  his  brows — Zylda — Zylda  Dermody — 
he  remembered  the  fresh-skinned  Irish  girl  in  the 
"Shaneen"  chorus  who  had  swung  to  Company  2  the 
second  year  out. 

"If  you're  askin'  me  I'll  say  she's  a  live  one,"  the 
door-man  ran  on.  His  grin  relaxed — for  some  rea- 
son young  Plazarski  seemed  frowning  and  resentful. 
Maybe  there  had  been  something  between  them. 

Suddenly  Stash  asked  if  he  had  heard  anything 
about  Cardoul. 

"Nothing  since  that  he's  gone  down  the  runs  for 
good." 

Stash  hurried  down  the  alley  with  a  stifled  feeling. 
At  the  mouth  a  trio  of  girls  wheeled  in,  and  one  of 


FLYING  GLORY  265 

them  stopped  abruptly  and  called  Stash's  name  in  a 
musical  but  coarse  intonation. 

He  turned  to  see  a  Zylda  Dermody  of  more  incisive 
lips  and  eyes,  a  vivid  reminiscence  of  the  little  dancer 
at  Clan  Na  Gael  picnics.  She  held  her  head  high: 
"Pally  Plazarski !" 

He  escaped  her  invitation  to  come  "in  back"  by  mak- 
ing the  excuse  that  he  had  a  check  to  see  it  front.  He 
bought  one  at  the  kiosk  and  sat  in  the  dusk  waiting, 
glancing  idly  at  the  program  which  promised  a  grand 
winter  opening  after  the  summer  vaudeville.  ...  It 
was  all  so  familiar — and  yet  so  far  off. 

The  tabloid  came  on,  and  the  coryphees  rang  their 
way  with  anklets  and  armlets  of  bells  through  a  song 
that  clamored:  "Something  Goes  Tingle-Ingle-Ling- 
ing."  Stash  felt  Zylda  Dermody 's  eyes  flashing  into 
his ;  and  fumbling  for  his  program  to  hide  his  own  eyes 
he  found  the  Killarney  rose  which  Rose  had  worn, 
matted  in  his  inside  coat  pocket.  Automatically  he 
smelled  it;  and  the  gesture  brought  back  the  breath 
he  had  drawn  that  magic  night,  craving  unattainable 
sweetness  as  his  fancy  reeled  on  in  fainting  images — 
red  rose  to  white  rose — white  rose  to  melting  snow, 
burning  like  wine.  The  dead  cravings  trooped  through 
his  heart  like  a  mourning  melody. 

The  rushing  finale  which  swirled  out  a  stale  dust 
and  humid  perfume  antagonized  and  sickened  him.  He 
saw  its  slippery  thrust  as  from  a  bulging  power-house 
of  passion  with  pistons  thumping.  He  heard  the  chid- 
ing flat  little  voices  with  the  babyish  clutch  in  their 
sensuous  whine.  The  Johnnies  who  had  been  caught 
by  such  poisoned  honey  had  always  seemed  to  him  like 
effete  decayed  old  men.  Full  of  the  rush  and  swing  of 
life  he  had  brushed  them  aside  contemptuously.  Now 


266     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

he  felt  the  penetrating  decay  as  if  it  saturated  his  old 
dream  of  Rose  and  even  his  happy  play  with  Marika — 
as  if  nothing  was  free  from  its  stigma. 

Something  told  him  to  go — to  go ! — to  rush  out  and 
break  his  head  somewhere.  But  he  stayed  on,  watch- 
ing dully  the  opening  of  an  Ellis  Island  sketch.  A 
little  shock  ran  through  him  as  he  glanced  at  the  title 
— "The  Violin  That  Talked  Its  Way  In."  It  reminded 
him  instantly  of  his  own  first  appearance  with  "The 
Violin  That  Talks  Patter." — So  does  Vaudeville  re- 
peat and  copy  itself.  .  .  . 

The  "Commission"  listened  stolidly  to  the  Italian 
mother's  plea  that,  though  short  on  the  required  money, 
her  boy  had  a  special  "seegerette"  for  playing  that 
would  soon  bring  them  wealth.  The  slim,  red-cheeked 
boy  advanced  then  and  played  with  a  dithering  vivacity 
that  set  the  heavy  brogans  under  the  commissioners  to 
waggling,  and  saved  the  sketch  from  a  touching  close. 

In  a  moment  Stash's  mind  had  swung  back  to  the 
Savoy  period.  He  saw  the  dusky  tiers  and  felt  the 
ghostly,  snowy  gust  of  the  spotlight.  He  saw  again 
Marika's  white,  eager  face  and  the  thrilling  quiver  of 
her  caught-up  lip  as  he  twittered  "I  love  you."  With 
Stash,  Marika's  love  had  run  back  to  the  time  when  he, 
a  little  boy,  had  found  her  the  kindest,  sweetest  play- 
mate, and  as  such  had  neglected  her. 

Oh,  Marika ! — what  did  she  think  of  him  now  ?  He 
found  that  he  was  clenching  his  hands  and  twisting  in 
his  chair.  He  felt  that  Marika  could  have  helped  him, 
could  have  explained  the  treacherous,  sickening  evil 
that  had  carried  down  all  his  dreams.  .  .  .  He  could 
bear  it  no  longer;  and  walked  out  into  the  afternoon, 
which  had  suddenly  turned  gray  and  murmurous  with 
gusting  wind. 


FLYING  GLORY  267 


IV 


Zylda  Dermody,  who  had  been  watching  him  from 
back-stage,  turned  out  of  the  alley  and  called  his  name. 
He  turned  to  see  her  flushed,  laughing  smile,  a  vivid 
stain  in  the  drab  alley  atmosphere. 

He  hesitated  .  .  .  hardly  knowing  what  to  do  ... 
the  bleak  ocean  of  the  humming  city  seemed  like  an 
endless  roaring  sadness  that  had  come  around  him. 

She  puckered  her  red  lips  and  whistled  flippantly — 
"Something  seems  tingle-ingle-inging" — just  pertly 
waiting  for  him.  .  .  . 

But  something  else  was  chiming  more  thin  and  sweet 
— far  off  in  the  corner  of  his  head — like  a  star.  He 
raised  his  cap,  and  with  face  smiling  in  a  kind  of  hag- 
gard, shining  daze — turned  and  walked  on. 

Winter  was  in  the  air,  and  down  the  long  echoing 
avenues  the  roar  of  afternoon  traffic  boomed  with  a 
sounding  melancholy  murmur. 


CHAPTER  II 


The  third  day  had  passed  without  news  of  Stash. 
Andre  had  lost  not  a  minute,  after  arriving,  in  going 
to  big  Mac.  And,  although  she  remembered  that  the 
Andrew  Fentrees  didn't  approve  of  the  ticket  jobber, 
she  urged  him  to  bring  any  word  he  cared  to  talk  over 
to  the  house  on  Broad  Chandos. 

Towards  the  end  of  her  account  it  had  been  difficult 
to  make  way  through  his  frequent  bahoos — and  he 


268      STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

gripped  her  hand  with  such  rough  energy  that  she 
charged  that  unfairly  with  the  smart  in  her  eyes.  And 
in  his  bear's  blundering  way  he  made  matters  worse 
by  recognizing  what  she  tried  to  conceal : 

"Fine  I  know  how  you're  feelin'.  But  I'll  lay  my- 
self endlong  to  find  him.  The  castaway  lad!  .  .  .  I'll 
lay  myself  endlong!  Don't  fash  yourself  now,  don't 
you " 

"I'm  not!"  flashed  Andre  tearfully,  angrily.  "It's 
you! — I  mean — I'm  so  glad  you're  going  to  help !" 

II 

The  big  ticket  broker  unearthed  the  first  rumor, 
from  the  Frontenac  door-man.  He  was  wonderfully 
excited,  and  when  nothing  came  of  it  grew  correspond- 
ingly depressed.  Added  to  this,  he  had  nearly  alien- 
ated Tallant  from  the  search  by  offering  the  thin  young 
newspaperman  an  honorarium  for  the  extra  time  he 
spent  in  the  search. 

And  then  Tallant  had  come  with  the  report  of  a  Bois 
Blanc  Street  dance  hall  and  a  young  fellow  he  had  seen 
there  at  the  piano :  "He  sat  like  a  rock,  pounding  it  as 
if  he  hated  it.  Big  shoulders — rocky  head  with  a 
promontory  aft.  Does  that  hit  it?  You  know  I  saw 
him  two  nights  last  summer — that's  all.  His  face 
looked  too  hawkish — like  a  white  Indian.  .  .  .  No  one 
seemed  to  know  him  .  .  .  called  him  'Polak  Stan/ 
But  I  found  he  stayed  on  Deversucmce — that  string  of 
cheap  hotels." 

ni 

It  was  a  cold  cloudy  morning  when  Andre  and 
Janvier  investigated  the  New  Excelsior  on  Tallant's 


FLYING  GLORY  269 

report.  There  was  no  elevator;  and  the  smell  in  the 
hallways  of  sulphur,  extinct  newspapers  and  tobacco 
filled  Andre  with  suspicion  and  repulsion. 

In  the  moments  of  waiting  she  could  only  try  to 
picture  Stash  moving  through  this  red-carpeted  hall 
and  force  her  mind  to  believe  that  there  hadn't  been 
some  strange  mistake.  It  was  only  when  she  saw  the 
tall  Pole  boy  standing  in  the  door  that  she  knew  they 
weren't  mistaken  and  that  she  must  keep  from  her 
voice  the  hurt  quiver  for  such  a  different  Stash — stand- 
ing there  uncertainly — afraid  to  smile  at  them — afraid 
to  retreat — irresolute  and  smelling  pitifully  of  cheap 
barber's  lotion.  Though  he  had  just  been  shaven,  it 
had  left  his  face  white  and  unflushed.  She  was  hor- 
ribly afraid  of  crying. 

"Oh,  Stash!"  she  said,  and  getting  quick  control  of 
her  voice  and  taking  his  hand :  "We've  had  such  a  time 
finding  you.  .  .  .  I'm  mad!"  Again  she  wanted  to 
cry.  She  found  that  she  was  stroking  his  hand.  "Why, 
why  didn't  you  let  us  know  and  help?  Raoul  and  I 
are  going  to  ...  never  let  you  go  again!  .  .  .  Let's 
get  out  of  this  place  first,  and  you  can  tell  while  we're 
going  along.  .  .  .  Oh-h.  ..."  He  had  turned  abruptly 
and  rushed  back  into  his  room.  .  .  .  "My  cap !"  She 
heard  his  hoarse  voice  breaking. 

It  was  some  moments  before  he  came  out  again,  and 
Andre  saw  that  he  would  be  unable  to  tell  anything  for 
some  time.  They  descended  the  stair  flights.  At  the 
quiet  Greek  coffee-house  where  Janvier  left  them  the 
first  thing  she  insisted  on  was  that  he  must  find  a  better 
lodging. 

"Some  place  like  that "  he  said  harshly,  "she's 

living." 

"But  Stash,"  said  Andre,  confronted  by  what  she 


270      STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

saw  must  be  a  malignant  fixed  idea,  "not  a  better 
place  .  .  .  only  one  that  isn't  so  ...  so  drugged  look- 
ing." 

He  agreed  finally  to  this.  There  followed  a  silence ; 
and  Andre  said:  "Jennika  is  back,  Stash;  married  to 
Tom — and  I  think  going  to  be  happy." 

He  seemed  lightened  by  this  news. 

"I  can't  remember  any  more  home  news.  I've  been 
too  worried  to  do  anything  here.  But  is  there  any- 
thing you're  anxious  to  hear  about?" 

She  saw  him  clench  his  jaws  in  eager  but  bafHed 
anxiety  to  produce  a  name.  .  .  .  She  was  ready  to 
tell  him  about  Rose  Maddon.  .  .  .  He  drew  his  eyes 
from  the  window  and  muttered  with  fearful  eagerness : 
"What  does  Marika" — he  cleared  his  voice — "Marika 
think  .  .  .  about  me?" 

"Oh-h "  Andre's  eyes  brightened,  as  if  she  could 

bring  him  here  a  splendid  offer  beyond  his  hopes: 
"Stash — if  you'll  only  believe  me — ^she  is  proud  of  you 
now !" 

He  seemed  a  little  not  to  grasp  it.  This  touched 
her  more  than  any  sudden  demonstration.  "But  I 
mean  you ! — Stash — she's  proud  of  you !" 

For  the  first  time  a  flush  of  color  came  to  his  face, 
and  he  tried  to  speak,  but  only  disjointed  fragments 
came:  "Could  she!  I  threw  her  for  Rose  Maddon, 
didn't  I? — didn't  I  seem  to?  I  would  have  killed 
Varsh  that  night,  I  tried  hard  enough!  I  didn't  care 
about  him  and  Rika.  And  then  I  pulled  away  from 
Rynia ! — like  I'd  hit  her.  .  .  ."  He  ended  on  an  eager 
breath,  as  if  he  waited  for  her  to  assure  him  that  in 
spite  of  all  he  had  done  Marika  could  still  believe  in 
him. 


FLYING  GLORY  271 


IV 

Janvier  came  back  with  a  package  of  "Vasconselles." 
"The  factory  is  just  around  the  corner,"  he  explained, 
"and  several  nicer  kiosks  than  this."  The  first  in- 
vasion of  Greek  and  Turkish  coffee-houses  had  come 
this  year  and  was  yet  a  novelty  in  the  city.  "You 
get  a  room  around  here,  and  Andre  and  I  will  come 
round  to  sip  at  one  of  these  coffee  cabooses.  ...  If 
you  don't  mind  I'll  bring  Tallant,  too." 

He  scrawled  on  a  torn  paper,  and,  wrapping  a  coin 
in  it,  asked  Stash  to  hand  it  to  the  Greek  tobacco  mer- 
chant on  his  way  back.  Not  till  long  afterward  did 
Stash  guess  that  the  coin  was  a  ruse,  or  that  Janvier 
had  recognized  in  the  large  lumpy  Greek — Vasconselles 
— a  lover  of  humanity  and  had  asked  him  to  help  the 
big  young  Pole.  The  coin  was  mere  make-weight, 
an  excuse  for  the  password  which  Janvier  counted  on 
the  Greek  to  understand. 


"Tell  that  young  man "  said  the  tobacco  mer- 
chant with  the  amber-tinted,  white  mustache,  receiv- 
ing the  coin,  "that  I  shall  lay  over  for  him  some 
special  'Stamboul  Stamp' — I  guess  that  is  what  he 
wants.  And  you — I  can  tell  by  your  eyes  you  are 
smoking  a  bad  brand." 

When  Stash  explained  that  he  was  not  smoking  at 
all,  and  Vasconselles  had  enjoyed  a  slow  swaying 
wheeze,  Stash  could  hardly  help  warming  to  the  big 
man  with  the  shaggy  white  hair  and  the  pansy  brown 
eyes.  He  even  let  himself  be  shown  over  the  factory 


which  was  a  factory  in  no  real  sense,  but  a  cubicle  of 
Oriental  pungence. 

The  next  day  he  brought  his  few  things  to  a  room 
in  the  brown  brick  boarding-house  where  the  tobacco 
merchant  lived;  and  before  long  the  great  keystone- 
shaped  man,  twinkling  behind  his  black-rimmed  pince- 
nez  was  a  familiar  friendly  figure  to  Stash — and  to 
Raoul  and  Andre,  who  came  frequently  to  sip  with 
Stash  at  a  nearby  coffee-house.  Andre  named  him 
"Mr.  Strix" — for  the  owl  effect  of  his  glasses  and  hair, 
and  for  a  handle  to  slyly  commend  him  with  in  his  own 
hearing.  Andre  was  adept  in  these  practises;  and  it 
startled  her  to  have  him  beam  across  the  table  at 
Gossians  one  day :  "I  would  tell  you  why  you  call  me 
Mr.  Strix!" 

Andre  turned  pink  and  laughed  breathlessly :  "Why ! 
I  didn't  know  you  knew,  but  .  .  ." 

"I  know  that  Latin  name  for  the  owl — strix  pratin- 
cola — the  barn  owl.  I  hear  you  say  it  sometimes — I 
see  your  friend's  face — I  look  in  the  glass  when  I  clip 
my  beard — well,  in  a  minute — a  pretty  long  minute, 
for  my  slow  brain — I  see  a  funny  connection !" 

His  voice  was  actually  tremulous  with  his  feeling 
of  temerity  in  exposing  her.  His  ponderous  keystone 
shape  in  its  pearl-gray  cutaway  trembled  as  if  he  con- 
fronted a  minataur.  Suddenly  Andre  burst  into  a 
laugh  which  the  others  were  compelled  to  join;  Vas- 
conselles  shaking  like  a  mountain  now  that  his  fright 
was  over;  and  Stash  joining  with  the  first  audible 
laugh  he  had  given  in  weeks. 

"Do  you  forgive  me?"    Andre  wiped  her  eyes. 

"Well,  let  me  say "  the  big  man  became  em- 
phatic, "I  am  Mr.  Strix  forever  on.  I  would  rather 


FLYING  GLORY  <TO 

be  that  to  such  nice  friends  than  Vizier  of  the  Golden 
Horn." 

One  day  McCandlish  joined  them  at  Gossians,  but 
did  not  come  afterward.  Oddly  enough,  the  big  man 
seemed  vaguely  jealous  of  the  polished  old  Greek. 


CHAPTER  III 


No  one  had  greater  faith  in  Stash  than  big  Mac. 
He  watched  his  new  work  on  The  News;  and  finally 
sought  out  Tallant  and  apologized  for  his  conduct 
towards  the  pallid  youngish  newspaperman. 

"Speakin'  of  that  offer  now — bahoo! — I  see  it  was 
a  shame  to  offer  you  money !  .  .  .  But  it  was  a  mere 
matter  of  gettin'  you  to  give  more  time  to  it.  ...  I 
was — I'm  tellin'  you — just  desperate  to  locate  him 
before  he  got  sucked  under!  I  wasn't  strictly  ac- 
countable. I  know  you  don't  like  my  line  of  busi- 
ness .  .  .  but  we're  one  in  wantin'  to  help  him — I 
take  it." 

The  hardness  slipped  from  Tallant's  protuberant 
black  eyes.  He  saw  that  McCandlish  had  come  up  to 
the  local  room  ostensibly  to  see  Stash,  but  perhaps 
with  the  hidden  intent  of  placating  himself.  A  sudden 
irrepressible  warmth  crept  into  his  heart,  and  his 
nervous  spasmodic  smile  broke  out. 

McCandlish,  leaning  against  the  green  baize  table 
that  flanked  the  room,  and  glancing  down  at  his  cigar 
point,  went  on  to  say  that  he  hoped  for  the  big  lad 
to  "get  in  gangway"  on  the  show  business.  If  he 
himself  could  go  back  and  start  afresh  he'd  like  best 


to  build  and  produce  plays.  There  was  a  mere  possi- 
bility, he  muttered — by  which  he  meant  that  it  was 
his  keenest  intent  and  hope ! — that  the  lad  could  do  all 
that  for  him !  .  .  .  He  waved  a  vague  circle  with  his 
cigar  and  glanced  out  inquiringly  from  watery  gray 
eyes. 

Tallant  was  going  to  reply,  when  Stash  came  in — 
and  seeing  the  two  men  hurried  up  smiling.  His  face 
had  filled  in  again  and  hardened ;  but  there  was  still 
a  lingering  trace  of  those  despairing  weeks  of  search, 
in  a  look  of  stern  wistfulness  that  somehow  mingled 
weakness  and  strength.  The  same  mixture  was  in  his 
feeling  about  his  search:  he  more  firmly  clung  to  it 
because  he  had  lost  hope. 

Tallant  had  on  his  hat,  about  to  leave  for  the  after- 
noon, and  suggested  that  he  go  along  with  McCandlish 
if  he  was  leaving. 

n 

When  they  got  out  on  the  street  Tallant  took  up  the 
talk  again  where  they  had  left  off. 

"There's  something  in  what  you  say  about  growing 
up  a  boy  in  the  playworld  air.  But  the  practical  sense 
in  the  finger-tips — you  spoke  of — I've  wondered  if  it 
isn't  mostly  the  verve  that  knows  by  vibration  what 
the  verve  of  youth  will  respond  to.  He  seems  to  have 
lost  a  good  deal  of  that — that  he  had  so  much  of." 

"That  he  had  so  fine!— that  he  had  so  fine!"  ex- 
claimed McCandlish — an  audible  sigh  lumbering  out 
of  his  big  chest,  which  was  covered  with  a  fancy  vest 
just  as  on  the  morning  when  little  Stash  had  chuckled 
to  himself  that  "those  were  the  big  engines  of  him!" 

"I  understand  you,"  he  said,  "but  that's  all  coming 
back,  I  hope.  I  couldn't  rightly  understand  what's 


FLYING  GLORY  275 

the  matter  of  him,"  he  muttered  gruffly  gentle;  "but 
if  you'll  be  helpin'  him  betimes,"  he  shot  out,  "it's 
the  best  that  can  happen  to  him.  .  .  .  You  understand 
— with  your  talk — "  he  ran  on  gruffly — "and  your 
books — and  with — "  he  waved  his  hand — "the  com- 
pany of  youth  that  only  youth  can  give !  .  .  .  Y'know 
it's  the  business  of  youth  to  be  happy  an'  pleasure 
gatherin'.  .  .  .  The  Business  of  Youth  ...  I  mind  a 
play  of  that  name  .  .  .  That  business  ought  to  be  at- 
tended to!" 

"Most  carefully !"  Jerry  Tallant  laughed,  "or  where 
would  the  theatre  business  come  from!" 

They  parted  with  a  zest  of  unsuspected  friendliness. 


CHAPTER  IV 


By  mid-winter  Stash  was  putting  in  a  full  day  on 
The  News,  and  looking  forward  to  the  "ghost's  walk- 
ing" for  the  entertainment  he  could  then  afford  to 
give  to  Andre,  Janvier  and  Tallant.  Between  times 
he  lived  very  cheaply  at  the  brown  rooming-house,  and 
learned  to  know  most  of  the  neighborhood  through  the 
affectionate  familiarity  of  Vasconselles'  eyes — even 
to  turning  in  good  copy  on  these,  such  as  "The  Black 
Walrus," — as  he  called  the  fire  crew  captain  on  the  cor- 
ner. 

It  had  been  a  memorable  night  for  Stash  when  Tal- 
lant showed  him  the  draft  of  a  five-act  play  which  he 
had  been  tinkering  on,  and  they  began  together  a  work 
that  was  to  last  all  winter. 

The  newspaperman  recognized  that  Plazarski  had 


276     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

a  knack  of  knocking  down  a  too  "liney"  part  and 
framing  it  up  again  into  a  passage  of  nervous  vigor. 
This  often  served  the  purpose  of  suggesting  something 
entirely  new  to  Tallant,  while  at  other  times  he  was 
content  merely  to  polish  it. 

In  the  meantime  Stash  found  the  local  room  a  cir- 
culating library  of  ideas,  books  and  virile  terse  gossip. 
He  spent  the  evenings  at  Chittenden  Square  or  Broad 
Chandos  Street,  or  in  reading  and  writing  on  the  play 
which  Tallant  called  "ours."  Tallant  confessed  that 
he  would  have  barged  along  with  an  increasing  baggage 
of  scenarios  never  carried  beyond  the  layout  stage, 
unless  he  had  been  able  to  harness  Stash's  drive  to 
"The  Heart  of  Mr.  Strix,"  as  they  called  their  detec- 
tive and  old  home  play.  To  Tallant  young  Plazarski 
seemed  like  a  coal  mine  carrying  an  energy  fresh  and 
scarcely  charred  by  the  experience  that  had  seemed  a 
blasting  fire  to  Stash. 

II 

Spring  made  a  sudden  advance  in  March,  and  the 
houseman  in  Chittenden  Square  told  Tallant  that  "we 
hadn't  had  such  a  chancy  blink  in  eight  years."  The 
newspaperman  was  nervously  elated  over  the  prospec- 
tive production  of  the  "five  decker."  He  was  fairly 
irascible  at  the  impromptu  celebration  at  St.  Leger's 
Arbor.  To  this  Andre  came — with  Janvier — because 
she  had  been  their  best  "odds-on-abettor,"  according  to 
Tallant,  and  because  she  had  insisted  on  "Mr.  Strix"" 
going  into  the  play  layout — pansy  eyes,  nose-pinchers, 
keystone  shape  and  all. 

It  was  an  evening  like  that  when  Cardoul  Senior 
had  bought  Stash  his  violin  at  Kreuger's.  There 
seemed  to  be  a  turquoise  scratch  of  Springland  at  the 


FLYING  GLORY  277 

foot  of  every  deepening  avenue.  Blue  crocus  lights 
cropped  out  in  shadowy  courts  and  corners  as  dusk 
came.  Before  the  little  dinner  was  over  it  grew  dark. 
Andre  complained  at  Stash's  silence. 

Tallant  joined  her:  "Of  course  we'll  rip  it  all  to 
pieces  and  do  it  over  probably; — but  let's  for  to-night 
enjoy  the  illusion  that  it's  done.  And  that  Mac  is 
counting  his  commissions." 

"Writing  off  my  losses !"  McCandlish  grumbled  with 
grumpy  cheerfulness. 

"Yes,  let's  talk  of  something  else,"  Andre  agreed. 
"For  instance — that  if  it  hadn't  been  for  me  you'd 
never  have  had  old  Quilter's  speech — 'Mr.  Strix  is 
the  man  around  the  corner  that  everyone  knows — but 
that  nobody  knows  into  the  heart  of  him.' ' 

"Oh,  yes!"  snapped  Tallant,  "that's  something  so 
different  from  the  old  subject!  Let's  see:  I  saw  Lee 
Luders  yesterday.  Fifth  Avenue  and  Melody  Lane 
all  over.  He  can  step  up  to  lanky  sveltes  and  — 'You've 
got  a  dandy  walk  for  musical  comedy;  phone  me  at 
the  address  given' — slip  his  card  and  bow  himself  off — 
with  a  topper!" 

"Doing  lovely!"  said  Andre;  "Mr.  Mac,  your  turn. 
.  .  .  Lead  out  in  a  debate :  Is  musical  comedy  better 
than  Grand " 

"It  is! — "  said  McCandlish,  "go  no  further.  Look 
what  you'll  be  getting  in  it !  Life  isn't  all  frosting  and 
fricassee,  but  a  good  music  show  makes  you  feel  it  is 
for  two  hours  and  forty-five  minutes — if  they  aren't 
stingy." 

in 

The  lights  suddenly  blinked  out,  and  McCandlish's 
protesting  taroo-bahoo!  echoed  in  the  darkness.  A 


candle  was  set  on  their  table  by  a  waiter,  who  assured 
them  that  the  whole  city  was  in  the  dark.  An  under- 
ground gas  explosion  had  cut  the  main  Edison  con- 
duit. Automobiles  were  trained  to  throw  their  lights 
through  the  front  windows,  but  deeper  down  the  can- 
dles were  the  only  light  in  a  wavering  greenery  of 
arbored  bays  like  twinkling  forest  settings. 

"Doesn't  it  seem  strange  now,"  said  Andre,  "that 
you  were  ever  such  chums  with  Lee?" 

Stash's  face,  down  bent,  looked  longer  in  the  can- 
dle's fluttering — thinner,  fined  out. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  looked  up  smiling,  "things  al- 
ways seem  pretty  good  till  you're  past.  Now  the  play's 
all  done  I  begin  to  look  at  it  coldly  and  wonder  if  it 
will  be  a  draw.  What  is  there,  after  all,  that's  good 
in  it?" 

"Good  man!"  Tallant  exclaimed  irascibly,  "this 
gloom  is  getting  you — you're  growing  introspective 
on  us!" 

IV 

The  candles  were  burning  low,  and  they  moved  out 
into  the  crisp  blue  March  night,  where  the  sky  held  a 
new  prominence,  drifting  in  twinkling  stars  over  a 
darkened  city.  The  theatre  crowds  were  passing  in 
machines  with  hoary  spars  of  light,  or  in  laughing 
groups  in  search  of  some  cafe  not  too  dark  for  cheer. 

Archie  Fentree  had  brought  home  a  party  who  had 
checked  out  at  the  Forrest  Theatre ;  and  the  piano  was 
opened,  with  candles  which  had  long  served  as  piano 
ornaments  to  light  the  music.  The  furniture  bulked 
oddly;  an  old  ceiling  medallion  flickered  in  fitful 
chiaroscuro.  The  lightless  city  furnished  an  off-night 


FLYING  GLORY  279 

magic,  which  seemed  to  give  their  gaiety  an  inspired 
folly: 

"  'Be  it  then  confessed : 
Life  is  but  a  jest! — 
Pass  the  time  in  laughter, 
Love  and   song  .  .  .' " 

"Let's  try  it  again!"  said  Archie's  brisk  baritone, 
"and  Matheson — take  your  voice  down  there  on  the 
Canadian  side,  so  I  can  have  Tressie  by  me.  Come, 
Plazarski,  sing  up !" 

"Be   it  then  confessed.  .  .  ." 

But  Andre's  aunt  interrupted  to  tell  her  that  a  man 
had  called  to  see  her,  and  had  promised  to  be  back.  .  .  . 
"No — no! — no  one  they  knew,  but  a  little  man  with  a 
very  odd  name." 

In  the  midst  of  their  gay  recrimination  the  little 
man  must  have  come  up  the  dark  street.  .  .  .  Andre 
sprang  up  from  the  piano.  She  felt  before  he  passed 
the  archway  that  it  would  be  Varika,  and  rushed  across 
the  dimly  lighted  room  to  take  his  left  hand.  The 
other  was  in  Stash's  grip. 

"Sit  down  here,"  said  Andre,  "till  Aunt  Elaine  has 
a  fire  started  in  the  back  sitting-room." 

"How  are  they  all,  Varik?"  Stash  asked  in  a  low 
earnest  tone. 

"Fine !  fine !"  The  little  man  pressed  down  his  fat 
triangular  tie  uneasily. 


In  the  back  sitting-room  before  the  desultory  blaze 
Andre  spoke  tremulously :  "I  thought  you  never,  never 
left  home — Mr.  Varika." 

"Dat's  a  trouble!"  he  burst  out,  his  face  flushing 


280     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

above  the  turquoise-blue  tie,  "dat  I  like  my  home  too 
much  to  go  away — dat's  a  true  thing.  .  .  .  Back  at  de 
ol'  hostinets  I  was  so  mighty  glad!" — there  was  an 
almost  angry  fervor  in  his  voice — "dat  I  got  satisfied 
for  old  Bohemia  to  be  never  free — so  dat  dere  in  de 
shade,  wid  a  good  pipe,  it  makes  a  nice  thing  to  talk 
about!  .  .  .  How  we  goin'  to  some  day  give  de 
swob oda l  to  de  ol'  country.  .  .  .  Oh,  very  nice ! — but 
I  get  seedy  on  swoboda  an'  never  know  it !  /  got  seedy 
on  swoboda — dat's  what!"  The  blue  tie  seemed  to 
grow  bluer  as  his  face  flushed  redder.  He  laughed 
nervously,  and  twinkled  round  in  his  old  fashion. 

"Does  Ban  still  play  for  you?"  Stash  broke  the 
silence. 

"Ban?  Ban?  Ban? — yes,  yes,  he  plays  at  Palat's 
at  de  hostinets.  But  I  don'  go  dere  much.  .  .  .  I'll  tell 
you — things  are  change  so  much " 

In  an  instant  Andre's  heart  began  to  hammer. 

" — Dey  say  Koban  Lake  goin'  to  be  drained  now — 
after  I  built  my  new  place  on  it.  ...  An'  what  a 
change  it  make  to  dat  country!" — He  appealed  a  bit 
wildly  to  them  both. — "I  hear  dat's  all  wrong  about 
a  big  town  an'  factories — nothing,  nothing! — just  a 
mudhole — an'  a  mine  underneath — like  dat!  .  .  ."  He 
tried  to  describe  the  desolation  he  saw,  but  broke  down. 
.  .  .  "And  all  of  it  your  father  did!" — he  looked  at 
Andre  with  glistening  eyes.  In  a  moment  he  had 
brushed  them  with  his  black  overcoat  sleeve,  and  went 
on:  "I  couldn'  believe  it  dat  he  would  trick  us!"  He 
sprang  up,  facing  Andre,  who  had  risen  with  heart 
pounding. 

"What— what  does  Tom  say?" 

"He  says  nothing,  but  dat  he  will  take  up  de  fight 
1  Swoboda  =•  Liberty. 


FLYING  GLORY  281" 

for  us  if  we  want  to.  But  I  don't  want  to  fight  him — 
Mist'  Fen!"  said  Varika  hoarsely.  "So  I  ask  you — if 
dere  is  such  a  way  to  switch  it  off,  you  come  back  to 
tell  him."  He  paused  shortly,  his  hands  trembling  in 
agitation  on  the  checkered  cap  he  clutched.  Stash 
stood  behind  him,  a  wondering  frown  knotting  his 
forehead.  The  firelight  flickered  upon  all  three. 

"If  anything  .  .  ."  said  Andre  tremulously,  "if  it's 
the  way  you  say  .  .  .  I'm  afraid  it's  all  settled.  I 
couldn't  do  anything." 

"I  didn'  know,  I  didn'  know!"  said  Varika,  as  if 
pleading  excuse  for  annoying  her  uselessly :  "I  thought 
maybe — if  it  wasn'  too  late — you  could  tell  him  how 
we  feel  for  him  to  do  it — better  let  anybody  else  dan 
him!  .  .  .  An'  he  would  turn  roun'  swift!" — he 
switched  about — "an'  see  how  wrong  it  is !" — he  threw 
out  his  hands  as  if  before  an  opening  dark  cave  in  the 
corner.  Then  abruptly  changed :  "Well,  I  mus'  say 

good-bye "  he  twisted  his  mustache  as  if  to  assert 

himself  manfully;  though  his  eyes  were  still  glisten- 
ing :  "I  mus'  say  good-bye — an'  sorry  I  bothered  you." 

"It  didn't — you  didn't!"  said  Andre — in  a  whisper 
almost ;  she  took  his  hand  and  pressed  it  quickly.  He 
saw  her  distress  and  threw  back  his  head :  "It's  all  de 
same!"  he  tried  to  laugh  brusquely,  "I  have  de  idea 
about  it  all.  .  .  .  We  all  so  fine  satisfied — we  got 
seedy  about  swoboda!"  He  smiled  and  turned  to  be 
led  out.  .  .  .  "Such  a  nice  lady,  your  aunt,  make  a 
fire — I  wouldn'  have  require  it,  but  thank  you." 

Andre  led  the  way  through  the  hall  and  saw  both 
Varika  and  Stash  out  into  the  March  night.  Then 
turned  back  to  the  front  sitting-room  where  the  voices 
were  ringing : 


282     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

"I  like  the  boys — 
To  me  they're  joys: 
It's  fun  to  make  them  think 
Their  stories  you  believe! 
Look  in  their  eyes — 
With  sweet  surprise!  .  .  ." 

The  debonair  dithering  of  the  piano  tapered  off  in 
casual  silver  throbbing — as  if  it  had  caught  the  spirit 
of  the  free-lance  night. 


CHAPTER  V 


Stash  watched  the  Huronic  stand  out — and  caught 
McCandlish's  last  wave  ...  It  was  a  handkerchief ! 
He  checked  a  little  affectionate  laugh.  Mac's  failing 
for  flicking  out  a  large  white  handkerchief  to  twirl 
in  his  hat  as  a  heat  exhaust — to  fling  in  gestures — 
this  had  an  intimate  place  in  Stash's  memory  of  the 
last  two  years. 

He  turned  back  toward  the  great  white  hotels  sun- 
ning on  the  Mackinac  bluffs.  A  little  empty  feeling 
went  with  him  .  .  .  and  a  wonder  at  the  Scotsman's 
growing  dependence  on  him.  It  was  something  inti- 
mate and  strong  between  them  that  had  little  if  any 
connection  with  the  success  of  the  Tallant  and  Plazar- 
ski  play.  That  hadn't  been  a  sufficient  royalty  maker 
to  loom  large.  And  even  if  he  shouldn't  succeed  in 
the  summer's  intention  he  felt  that  Mac  would  still 
think  of  him  in  the  same  warm  way — "the  big  lad." 

He  wondered  if  he  could  give  as  much  as  the  Scots- 
man expected.  A  heavy  feeling  of  having  disappointed 
in  that  personal  way  reverberated  back  to  last  sum- 


FLYING  GLORY  283" 

mer — when  he  and  Fentree  had  been  ill  at  ease,  and 
something  about  the  Varika  place  had  reproached  him 
as  if  he  were  connected  with  the  Maddon-Marantle- 
Fentree  scheme. 

The  hardest  thing— the  most  bewildering — had  been 
to  meet  Marika's  terribly  truthful  gaze  the  last  night 
when  she  had  begged  him:  "And  don't  come  to  me 
because  you  are  sad  for  me!  Never  that!  But  just 
if  you  love  me  a  little." 

"I  do — I  do!"  he  protested.  "I'm  only  sad  because 
I  haven't  stayed  by  it  straight  way  through!"  But 
she  had  bade  him  good-bye;  and  traveling  north  with 
life  sick  in  his  heart  and  a  mournful  gaze  turned  on 
dead  raptures,  he  had  wondered  with  a  start  if  that 
melancholy  had  showed  in  his  way  with  her. 

The  year  hadn't  proved  unhappy,  because  it  had  kept 
him  busy  with  the  management  of  "Mr.  Strix,"  and  the 
light  role  he  carried.  But  already  as  he  climbed  the 
sunny  causeways  to  the  hotel  he  felt  the  irksome  dread 
of  being  left  alone  with  his  thoughts — a  dread  that 
had  increased  during  the  past  year.  He  lounged 
through  the  day,  and  danced  till  the  lights  of  small 
craft  coursing  the  purple  harbour  cleared  home,  and 
the  hotel  deck  like  a  lofty  borne  ship  sailed  on  alone — 
deserted  by  laughing  voices  and  storming  music. 

ii 

As  he  woke  the  next  morning  a  sheer  sweetness  of 
some  dream  presence  daunted  his  waking  mind  till  he 
resolved  it  into  the  shape  of  Rose  Maddon;  and,  dis- 
missing it,  started  out  with  a  determination  to  make 
a  beginning  on  the  first  draft  of  the  new  play.  Coming 
back  for  breakfast  along  the  mint-scented  beach,  he 


284     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

thought  of  her  again;  and  entering  the  dining-hall  of 
the  hotel  caught  a  sight  of  her  as  poignant  as  if  she 
had  stepped  out  of  the  blue  and  peach-blow  of  the 
morning  sky.  .  .  .  The  pink  had  left  the  sky  when 
they  stood  out  on  the  lofty  veranda,  but  it  was  still  a 
faint  and  windy  azure. 

"I  thought  it  was  'our  Mr.  Plazarski,'  "  she  said, 
"but  someone's  head  kept  cutting  yours  like  a  gibbous 
moon.  .  .  .  Not  yours  the  moon  one !"  She  discounted 
just  in  time  the  beginning  twinkle  of  his  eye. 

"You  must  have  seen  the  moon  in  big  state  if  you 
came  in  last  night." 

"Oh — we  did!  It  was  just  as  large  as  the  ocean 
moon;  but  the  boat  was  more  convenable — and  the 
Lake — well,  big  and  good  enough!  Like  home!  I 
was  ready  to  come  back  even  if  Mr.  Leverage's  talk 
hadn't  frightened  us.  It  did  a  little.  And  he  was 
righter  than  we  thought." 

"Is  it  going  to  amount  to  anything — this  war  busi- 
ness?" 

Rose  raised  her  dark  eyebrows  and  shook  her  head 
dubiously.  There  was,  if  any  change,  something  tired 
about  the  marquise  face  which  added  a  little  sadness 
to  her  startling  blue  eyes. 

in 

They  left  each  other,  and  Stash  tried  vainly  to  work. 
He  wondered  how  much  she  had  been  able  to  forget 
of  that  terrible  past.  He  wondered,  frowning,  if  he 
must  continue  to  feel  constraint  in  her  company,  and 
if  it  wouldn't  be  best  to  avoid  it  altogether. 

His  wonder  was  answered  during  the  next  week,  for 
with  each  new  meeting  the  constraint  wore  away.  At 


FLYING  GLORY  285 

times,  when  the  exhilarating  fun  of  sharp  windy  runs 
in  the  cat-boat,  or  walks  on  the  shore  and  wood  paths, 
had  stirred  them  deeply,  they  found  an  electric  gaiety, 
snapping,  sparkling,  dangerous. 

One  windy  bright  afternoon  she  threw  aside  the 
book  she  had  been  reading  in  a  sandy,  sun-warmed 
cove,  and  drew  near  to  glance  with  inquiring  interest 
at  his  block-pad — where  hatch-works  were  crazing  the 
sheet  under  his  tense  hand. 

"I  can't  read  any  more — the  wind  flips  the  pages — 
and  sand  gets  in " 

Livid  white  clouds  were  lumbering  swiftly  over- 
head. 

"And  it's  getting  up  squally,"  said  Stash,  throwing 
back  his  head,  "and  weather's  thickening — and — that's 
the  way  I  feel! — do  you?"  He  smiled  apology  for  his 
discouraged  tone. 

"Is  it  hard  work?"  she  asked  seriously. 

"When  you  get  on  a  dead  center,  and  need  sand " 

"Here's  sand,"  said  Rose,  holding  out  a  hand- 
ful. .  .  .  He  caught  her  hand  with  his.  He  could 
have  held  both  her  fists  in  his  one ;  it  struck  something 
ringing  in  him,  with  the  same  old  note  of  endearing 
smallness.  Abruptly  he  dropped  it. 

"Yes — it's  hard — when  the  thing  won't  come — and 
I  need  Tallant.  The  blocking  is  easy — but  after  that 

Jerry  could  sit  on  the  local  room  table  and  spout 

dialogue.  Maybe  you  could  help." 

"All  right!  .  .  .  What  are  these?"  pointing  to  the 
cross  hatchings,  "the  tracks  the  murderer  left?" 

"No "  said  Stash,  scowling  down  at  them,  and 

running  his  hand  through  his  squared-off  tuft  which 
the  wind  was  wavering,  "murders  are  beautiful,  lovely 
props — you  can  get  a  running  start  from  them,  and  red 


286      STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

or  scarlet  or  crimson  in  your  title.  But  this  is  merely 
romance.  It's  gypsy  romance.  Romany  stuff.  'Ro- 
mance XXXX'  was  the  name  Tallant  picked.  The 
deuce  with  that  title  is  that  I  print  it  at  the  top  of  the 
sheet  and  those  X's  run  me  right  off  into  these  shad- 
ings  .  .  .  and  I've  done  nothing  but  waste  time." 

"I'll  help  you,"  said  Rose  firmly,  and  took  his  pen- 
cil; "you  can  save  half  that  time  if  you" — she  drew 
so  close  that  her  chin  almost  touched  his  shoulder 
— "if  you'll  draw  your  X's  this  way!" — She  ended 
triumphantly — drawing  four  ////  and  crossing  them 
with  four  others.  "Now!"  she  said  seriously,  "that's 
so  much  quicker  than  drawing  each  separate  X  la- 
boriously." She  leaned  back  with  an  air  of  having 
rendered  great  service. 

It  was  as  if  she  offered  him  a  sharp,  sweet  formula 
for  conniving  at  romance. 

"You  are  great  at  short  cuts !"  he  laughed. 

"Surely,  I'm  expert  in  those  lines,"  she  smiled  back. 

Something  fixed  and  dark  was  questioning  her  from 
Stash's  eyes,  though  his  mouth  still  twisted  in  a  merry, 
casual  smile.  She  sprang  up  suddenly.  In  the  twin- 
kling of  an  eye  Stash  stood  beside  her.  There  was 
nothing  overt  in  his  motion,  simply  the  old  abrupt 
force  that  seemed  so  effortless  and  magic.  A  thrill 
of  memory  carried  her  back  to  the  day  at  Cutler's 
Beach. 

"What  are  you  smiling  at?"  he  asked,  as  they  walked 
back  through  the  woods. 

"Cutler's  Beach,"  she  said.  "I  didn't  know  I  was 
smiling.  I  was  thinking  how  you  pitched  till  the 
storm  broke,  and  how  white  the  ball  looked — like  a 
snowball — when  it  grew  so  dark." 

"That  must  have  been  because  that  sand  diamond 


FLYING  GLORY  287 

didn't  nig  up  the  ball — or  a  new  one  had  been  thrown 
in.  Was  that  all  that  made  you  smile?" 

"Something  else — yes — awfully  amusing — you'll  see 
if  I  tell  you." 

"I'll  remember  that!"  said  Stash,  walking  with  his 
head  thrown  back. 

They  mounted  the  boardwalk  stages  to  the  hotel, 
pausing  to  look  back  at  the  crisping  cats-paws  and 
gray  storm  world  over  the  straits ;  pledging  each  other 
silently  it  seemed  in  the  exciting  draught  of  such  a 
view  and  such  an  air. 

A  conscious  exaltation,  pathetically  hopeful  of  it- 
self, brought  his  dark  eyes  to  hers  with  the  laughing 
eagerness  of  an  older  brother  to  the  young  Stan  Plazar- 
ski  of  Cutler's  Beach. 


CHAPTER  VI 


It  was  that  night  that  Stash  received  word  from 
Fentree  urging  him  to  come  down  as  soon  as  he  could. 
Certain  developments  bearing  on  his  relation  to  the 
Walewski  properties  were  referred  to.  But  along  with 
this  was  a  vague  suggestion  of  menace  and  desperate 
anxiety.  Yet  all  apprehensions  were  unheard  in  the 
drum  beat  of  exultation  that  filled  his  head.  He  did 
not  know  what  he  hoped,  he  did  not  care  to  set  a  limi- 
tation to  it ;  he  only  knew  that  he  must  stay  until  Rose 
Maddon's  sailing  date. 

At  times,  as  the  five  remaining  days  sped  by,  Stash 
and  Rose  talked  in  gay  furor,  and  gained  at  other 
times  a  silence  that  meant  more.  They  fell  into  an 


288      STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

absent-minded  nonchalance,  a  cavalier  entente,  in  which 
they  seemed  to  ignore  each  other,  but  were  only  more 
acutely  conscious  of  each  other  and  that  they  need 
only  swing  silently  along  looking  at  a  world  enhanced 
by  that  cavalier  understanding. 

So  the  last  day  came,  with  a  farewell  to  the  lofty 
hotel  decks,  to  the  sandy,  roaring  shores  and  woods  of 
mint  and  evergreen  fragrance. 


ii 

Rose  was  leaving  before  her  party.  She  stood  with 
Stash  by  the  stern  rail  as  the  Georgian  boomed  a  mel- 
low majesty  of  good-bye,  and  the  white  serried  shore 
fell  back  on  its  floor  of  flashing  azure. 

They  passed  the  morning  under  the  canopy  of  the 
promenade  deck.  With  a  sense  of  exquisite  power 
Stash  found  her  evidently  willing  and  eager  to  spend 
every  moment  with  him.  Several  times  he  suggested 
that  he  go  off  and  read  or  work.  But  each  time  she 
had  countered  his  proposal,  as  if  anxious  to  test  her 
satisfaction  in  his  continuous  company. 

As  if  he  felt  that  she  was  trying  him  out,  he  assumed 
for  perversity  the  cavalier  entente,  was  silent  for  long 
minutes,  gazing  out  across  the  blue  dazzle  in  such  a 
way  that  he  could  keep  in  the  corner  of  his  eye  her 
lion  tawny  hair  with  its  fiery  gold  glints  above  her 
dainty  profile.  .  .  . 

Slowly  her  own  gaze  drifted  obliquely  his  way,  tak- 
ing the  reckless  contours  of  his  head  which  carried  a 
certain  savage  nobility,  the  sharp,  clean  cut  of  the 
matted  ear  and  the  faintly  glinting  cheek.  During  the 
last  two  years  she  had  seen  so  much  insidious,  hand- 
some unwholesomeness  that  she  saw  with  a  shiver  of 


FLYING  GLORY 

relief  the  wholesome,  flushed  warmth  of  Stash's  face. 
.  .  .  Why  was  it  so  flushed  and  vibrating?  .  .  .  And 
then  she  saw  suddenly  that  he  had  become  conscious  of 
her  side  glance  just  as  she  became  conscious  of  his. 
In  a  moment  they  were  laughing  together,  and  this 
laughter,  so  abrupt  and  thrilling,  thrust  them  into  a 
deeper  region  of  feeling. 

"You've  got  to  tell  me  what  you  were  laughing  about 
that  day !"  Stash  demanded  aggressively. 

"Not  yet "  she  denied,  "to-night  perhaps." 

They  watched  an  elf-like  tern  ranging  far  into  the 
blue  north  as  if  carrying  a  plaintive  message  of  fare- 
well. It  was  a  shimmering  noon-day  with  dissolving 
immensities  of  blue  building  a  North  ever  deeper. 

Ill 

Night  came  with  a  heavy  western  sky;  dark  bands 
of  iron  purple  with  sinister  yellow  flanges.  The  lake 
grew  dark,  and  merged  into  the  purple  of  the  sky. 
There  came  a  lingering  flush  of  crimson  that  tinged 
faces  and  white  bulkheads  with  pink  like  a  fire's  re- 
flection. The  throb  of  the  engines  seemed  to  come  out 
on  a  fuller  beat,  drumming  sternly  on  with  the  tower- 
ing, while-galleried  bulk,  to  escape  the  violet  gloom 
and  sinister  shine  of  the  northwestern  sky. 

Stash  Plazarski  and  Rose  Maddon  came  up  from 
the  shining  white  and  ringing  clatter  of  the  dining 
saloon  to  the  vague,  lonely  rustle  of  the  deck  and  the 
last  gorgeous,  sad  gloom  of  sky  and  water. 

Far  on  the  sun  road — immeasurably  shining — a 
strange,  dark  shape,  like  a  black  shard  of  their  own 
ship  lost  in  their  scouring  flight,  loosed  a  far  belling 


290      STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

lonely  murmur.  .  .  .  And  from  the  towered  mass 
above  them  a  grandiose  thunder  sloped  out  over  the 
water — burnishing  and  destroying  in  one  vibration  the 
last  shimmer  of  the  sun-road.  For  that  soon  melted 
out. 

It  grew  dark  quickly,  and  the  plash  and  shatter  of 
the  water  alongside  rose  higher.  A  lonesome  chill 
crept  into  Stash's  heart,  and  he  turned  longingly  to 
Rose's  slight  figure.  Her  hair  shimmered  in  the  cabin 
lights,  but  her  face  was  turned  out  to  the  dark.  The 
noise  and  clatter  within  and  the  murmur  along  the 
decks  left  them  alone  in  a  vibration  of  unknown  feel- 
ings. 

A  voice  passing  by  muttered  something  of  "Detroit 
at  half  after  ten."  A  sudden  feeling  of  fatefulness  in 
the  ship's  on-leaning  came  over  him,  as  though  back 
there  in  the  sinister  splendor  of  sunset  they  had  passed 
a  meridian,  and  down  through  the  dark  miles  he  would 
be  drawing  nearer  and  nearer  the  old  life,  to  Fentree 
and  the  Varikas  and  to  some  mystery  in  which  old 
Walewski  and  his  family's  dark  history  were  meshed. 

"Detroit  at  half  after  ten."  He  would  separate 
from  Rose  at  Detroit — where  she  was  to  visit  the 
Morfs.  Only  a  few  hours  more.  To  count,  to  think, 
to  plan  was  useless.  He  only  knew  that  there  were 
but  a  few  short  hours  with  Rose.  Chances  of  happi- 
ness, and  the  favors  of  illusive  sweetness — the  incred- 
ible sweetness  of  youth — were  limited.  He  suddenly 
realized  this  more  intensely  than  he  ever  had  before, 
as  he  felt  the  steady  surge  of  the  lighted  bulk  leaning 
on  through  the  dark — a  harping  castle  of  youthful 
melody  and  dancing. 


FLYING  GLORY  291 


IV 

He  didn't  care  to  dance — and  yet  proposed  it  to 
Rose.  The  feeling  that  it  might  be  their  last  night 
together  made  him  cling  to  every  moment  of  fragrant 
sweet  isolation  with  her. 

Yet  they  moved  in  to  the  green-carpeted  gallery — 
and  on  with  hushed  steps — looking  down  on  the  col- 
ored winging  dancers  a  few  moments  before  joining 
them.  .  .  .  When  they  came  up  once  more  and  out  on 
the  gallery  deck,  he  asked  her  to  tell  him  at  last  why 
she  had  smiled  that  day  on  the  beach. 

She  hesitated  a  little  and  began  in  a  low  voice:  "It 
doesn't  seem  anything  to  smile  at  now.  Perhaps  a 
little.  You  mustn't  misunderstand  me,  Stash — I  was 
a  selfish  little  girl  then — just  as  I'm  a  selfish  big  one 
now." 

"It's  not  on  the  proofs,"  said  Stash ;  he  clutched  the 
stanchion  with  a  hot  hand. 

"Well,  then — that  day  at  Cutler's  Beach  I  was  en- 
.vious  of  Marika  Varika  that  she  could  stay  that  eve- 
ning with  the  hero  of  the  day — you  know  you  were! — 
you  stood  with  her  in  that  rustic  pavilion — and  it  was 
such  a  childish,  secret  jealousy  that  I  didn't  know  I  felt 
it  till — afterward." 

"What's  selfish  about  that?"  Stash  muttered.  "You 
didn't  show  it."  He  tried  to  keep  the  jarring  of  his 
heart  from  out  of  his  voice. 

"Of  course  not,  I  was  too  proud.  It  would  have 
been  foolish  to  show  it — and  not  pretty."  Her  voice 
fluttered  as  she  went  on:  "It  was  the  pretty  aspect  I 
was  in  love  with,  I  know.  .  .  .  Little  Rose  Maddon 


292      STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

from  the  Castle — I  pictured  myself ! — holding  out  her 
hand! — central  figure  in  everything " 

"Don't  say  anything,"  Stash  muttered  angrily,  "to 
spoil  my  picture  of  that  little  girl!" 

"Wait  till  I  finish.  .  .  .  Holding  out  her  hand  to 
big  Stan  Plazarski,  tJie  Polak  boy!"  She  laughed  a 
little,  with  a  chime  as  though  crying.  "I'd  always 
thought  of  the  Polaks  as  cruel  and  rough  and  ter- 
rible. .  .  .  Don't  you  see ! — when  I  saw  that  big  smil- 
ing one — with  his  big,  gay,  twinkling  air — I  added  all 
the  terrible  I'd  heard  about  the  Polaks  to  make  a 
mystery  about  you!  From  all  I'd  heard  I  didn't 
imagine  one  of  them  could  be  good  looking.  It  was  a 
shock — a  teasing  one — I  said :  'Oh,  I  never  saw  such 
a  pretty  Polak  boy!'  .  .  .  Do  you  remember — that 
day  in  the  Wabash  Valley  yards?" 

"When  you  stood  in  the  black  spot!"  Stash  whis- 
pered. 

"But  you  didn't  see  through  my  mocking  words  to 
my  little  trembling  shock — as  if  a  gipsy  tale  about  me 
had  come  true !  You  made  a  face,  and  stood  smiling — 
the  merriest  boy's  face! — You  would  have  sprung  up 
into  that  stack  if  I'd  said  the  word.  Ten  feet!  I 
knew  you  could  then.  ...  It  began  that  noon.  .  .  . 
And  when  you  came  that  night  to  the  castle,  I  felt  like 
a  little  girl  in  a  frightening  dream — it  was  so  terribly 
what  I  wanted  to  happen!  The  minute  you  came  I 
knew — I  knew  it  had  gone  on! — like  dreams  most 
never  do.  I  was  trembling  so  that  all  I  could  do  was 
to — do  what  you  said!  When  you  told  me  laughing 
about  your  father — it  was  just  the  terror  I  knew  would 
be  there.  ...  If  I  could  go  back  to  that  valentine  Rose 
Maddon  that  I  saw  myself  and  that  you  pictured  that 
night! — with  a  tiny  pink  star  glittering  over  my 


FLYING  GLORY  293 

head  .  .  ."  She  laughed  again  with  the  chime  that 
sounded  somehow  grief -stricken. 

The  plash  and  swish  of  unseen  waves  came  up  to 
them. 

"You  havn't  spoiled  that  little  girl  a  bit,"  Stash 
murmured  hoarsely,  "but  just  given  her  back!"  He 
took  one  of  her  hands  in  his:  "Just  let  me — without 
seeing  you — think  I'm  holding  her  hand,  and  we're 
back  in  that  night." 

"But  we  aren't !" — she  laughed  with  the  little  chime, 
— "and  all  this  sliding  on — sliding — shows  we  aren't. 
.  .  .  I'm  more  selfish  than  I  was  then  ...  I  still 
make  pictures  of  myself — and  some  of  them  I'm  afraid 
of.  .  .  .  I'm  still  in  love  with  the  pretty  side — and 
when  anything  comes  across  to  jar  it,  I'm  hurt! — I'm 
raging  inside!  ...  So  don't  count  on  me,  because  I 
never  know  when  some  horrible  picture  may  form  it- 
self around  me  .  .  .  like  that  night  .  .  .  when  your 
brother  .  .  .  broke  into  the  theatre  .  .  ."•  She  stopped 
as  if  she  could  go  no  further.  .  .  .  "When  some  other 
terrible  picture  may  set  me  crying  inside — as  if  my 
pride  had  been  crushed — and  stamped  on !" 

He  saw  now,  and  felt  in  the  trembling  of  her  hand, 
how  she  had  felt  that  night  at  the  old  Alhambra. 

"You  see  now  how  I  am.  .  .  .  It's  only  in  this  last 
week  that  I've  been  able  .  .  .  Just  because  I've  been 
able  to  go  back  so  far  and  forget  the  in-between — 
that's  no  reason  to  think  that  I  won't  go  on  figuring 
myself  like  little  Rose  Maddon  did,  don't  you  see, 
don't  you  see! — And  that's  the  reason  I  smiled! — be- 
cause if  I  hadn't  smiled  and  laughed  I'd  have  felt  like 
crying  for  my  used-to-be  self  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  you." 

Something  was  beating  in  Stash's  throat  and  thun- 
dering in  his  ears,  like  the  warning  of  the  passing  of 


294     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

an  incredible,  sweet  illusion.  His  voice  caught — he 
gave  up  words — and  merely  raised  her  hand  to  where 
his  heart  was  thumping  ...  to  let  it  speak  for  him 
.  .  .  looking  down  in  the  dim  light  with  black  ques- 
tioning eyes. 

"Don't  trust  me,"  she  whispered,  "don't  count  on 
me,  Stash.  ...  I  couldn't,  couldn't  stand  it  again — 
it  would  sicken  the  picture  forever.  .  .  .  Figure  to 
yourself,"  she  laughed  tremulously,  "how  I'm  always 
figuring  myself  to  me!  .  .  ."  And  pulled  away  her 
hand.  She  stood  hesitating — and  while  she  was  hesi- 
tating, murmuring  that  she  was  going  in — Stash  felt 
at  last — knew  in  his  heart — that  it  had  been  a  dream, 
this  last  week — that  its  peak  was  passed — and  every 
plunging  mile  southward  through  the  watery  blackness 
would  carry  him  farther  and  farther  away  from  that 
meridian. 

And  yet  before  he  left  his  dark  post  above  the  plash- 
ing water  he  had  raised  a  new  hope :  an  illusion  built 
of  illusions — and  more  achingly  sweet  because  the  un- 
bounded, illimitable  faith  of  youth  was  missing — 
melted  somewhere  behind,  unseen,  like  the  shattering, 
rustling  wake  the  Georgian  tossed  backward  into  the 
blackness. 


The  next  morning  Stash  woke  to  the  throb  of  the 
engines;  and  looking  out  of  the  port  he  saw  the  rest- 
less light  blue  dazzle  of  St.  Clair.  Lavender  landfalls 
crept  out  of  the  misty  shimmer  to  the  south — and  the 
shining  avenue  of  the  Straits  leading  down  to  Detroit. 
Memories  of  Sunday  trips  with  his  mother  and  Car- 
doul  shimmered  in  the  sad  brightness  of  a  vanished 
time. 


FLYING  GLORY  295 

As  they  drew  near  the  city,  Rose  Maddon  came  out, 
and,  smiling  through  an  azure  barrier  of  expectancy, 
joined  him  by  the  rail.  Big  red  reveres  rose  about  her 
chin,  and  the  stormy  gray-blue  coat  fluttered  and  caught 
against  Stash's  arm.  They  watched  silently  as  the  city 
forged  out  in  stately  grimness  on  umber  transit  sheds 
and  dark  piling. 

In  the  abrupt  gloom  of  the  shed — after  the  sun- 
scarred  blue  of  the  river — the  crowding  faces  showed 
obscure.  But  in  a  moment  Stash  had  seen  Andre  and 
her  father.  Charlotte  and  Ced  Morf  stood  just  behind 
them.  There  was  a  rush  of  greeting : 

"I'll  see  your  father,  Rose,  before  you,"  said  Fen- 
tree  in  his  quick,  nervous  way. 

"Tell  him  then  to  give  you  a  vacation,"  said  Rose 
with  a  flash  of  smiling  sympathy. 

That  was  Stash's  last  glimpse  of  her:  an  inesti- 
mable flash  of  gray  and  red  reveres,  with  golden  sand 
glints  and  precious  blue  below  the  high  rolled  hat.  .  .  . 
Red  roses  to  snow  cooled  wine,  sharp  tingling.  A  sud- 
den blenched  hush  of  mind  brought  him  the  thunder 
of  the  boat,  throbbing  still  in  his  ears  like  time  made 
audible.  .  .  .  She  was  gone. 


BOOK  NINE:     THE  SPLENDID 
ENTERPRISE  AT  LAST 

CHAPTER  I 


Stash  and  Fentree  took  the  night  train  south.  His 
great  chance  had  come  at  last.  His  most  extravagant 
hopes  flared  up  under  the  hypnosis  of  the  lawyer's 
febrile  talk.  The  assurance  that  he  might  recover  the 
fortune  which  had  been  potential  in  Bolish  Plazarski's 
Detroit  holdings — converted  into  a  great  property  by 
Walewski's  shrewd  dealings  and  the  city's  magic 
growth — threw  a  strange,  unsteady  light  of  promise 
over  his  dream  of  Rose  Maddon. 

In  that  light,  he  fancied  such  a  precious  dainty  one 
might  be  able  to  figure  herself  in  a  brilliant  enough 
setting !  Ah,  would  she !  Would  she  be  able  to  figure 
herself  as  his!  His!  Ah,  little  Rose  from  the  Castle 
— what  a  finish  to  all  that  gipsy  dream  that  had  seemed 
too  exciting  for  a  young  girl's  mind  to  hold !  .  .  .  The 
big  smiling  boy  out  of  the  dark  ...  come  back  to 
overset  all  the  wrong  and  tragedy  that  the  figure  of  old 
Walewski  stood  for.  Old  Whaleback  Walewski  of 
the  new  Walewski  Line. 

He  walked  out  into  the  dark  of  the  train  vestibule  to 
try  to  think  more  clearly.  He  had  not  yet  given  Fen- 

297 


298     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

tree  a  definite  answer.  A  strain  of  coolness  streaked 
the  air :  they  were  nearing  the  foot  of  Lake  Michigan. 
Against  the  star-crumbled  sky  the  dunes  rolled  dim 
and  snowy.  The  sonorous  belling  of  a  steamer  told 
of  Michigan  plashing  dark  and  tireless  just  over  the 
ridge.  He  clutched  with  hot  hands  the  cooling  brass- 
work.  It  seemed  stupendous  to  think  of  a  concession 
that  would  make  him  part  owner  of  a  lake  line — like 
the  Ruffross  or  Chandos  boats.  But  nothing  less  than 
this  was  in  Fentree's  plans  for  forcing  Walewski's 
hand. 

The  lawyer  told  him  of  the  three  new  boats  added 
to  Walewski's  line.  Stash  had  heard  of  the  Casimir  II 
and  John  S.  Walewski,  named  for  two  boats  of  the 
old  whaleback  line.  It  was  Walewski's  responsibility 
in  the  Koban  Mine  disaster  that  had  roused  Fentree 
to  probe  the  old  man's  past  and  make  use  of  Jan's 
affidavits.  For  Walewski  had  demanded  to  be  taken 
in  on  the  mine  organization  when  he  turned  over  the 
essential  strip  in  Koban  Hotel  Estate  to  the  company 
that  drained  the  lake.  And  it  had  been  his  mischievous 
work  in  the  purchasing  department  which  had  led  in- 
directly to  the  mine  blast.  Stash  fantastically  pictured 
the  reddish  drumming  eyes  of  the  man  looking  in  out 
of  the  night — even  smiling  dryly  at  the  unstrung  Fen- 
tree,  with  his  buried  horror  and  anger  over  that  dis- 
aster. Stash  clenched  his  hands,  his  heart  pounded. 
He  saw  all  that  he  might  do  with  the  power  that  would 
be  his  in  time;  his  fancy  ranged  all  the  Lakes.  It 
was  like  the  visions  of  all  the  past  recoiling  upon  him, 
and  launching  him  at  last  into  the  greatest  enterprise 
of  all !  Something  real,  real,  real ! — different  from  the 
unsatisfying  dream  life  of  the  stage!  Now  at  last 
he  confronted  the  splendid  reality. 


THE  SPLENDID  ENTERPRISE  AT  LAST    299 

The  Junction  fell  behind.  The  switch-tower  ruby 
light  dwindled  in  the  ashen  dune-side.  A  caboose 
"fatigue"  lamp,  like  the  cool  blue  crystal  of  dreams, 
twinkled  and  was  gone.  They  were  definitely  forging 
southward,  and  Durand  would  soon  be  sending  out 
dreary  glimmers  of  shanty  lights  or  watchman's  lan- 
terns. 

Stash  went  back  into  the  car  with  a  resolution 
formed — to  cast  everything  into  the  lawyer's  scheme. 
In  the  theatrical,  unreal  lake  junction  with  its  ruby 
towerman's  light  gleaming  like  wine  in  the  snowy 
dune-side,  he  had  drunk  deep  of  the  cool  lake  air  and 
the  magic  of  dreams  drifting  far  to  new  worlds  that 
would  transfigure  him  for  her  dissatisfied  and  wistful 
eyes!  .  .  . 

n 

Fentree's  head,  with  its  glistening,  silver  filings 
among  the  iron  gray,  seemed  bent  in  sleep;  but  when 
Stash  got  nearer,  the  lawyer  lifted  his  watchful  eyes 
and  smiled  questioningly. 

"I'll  go  in!"  Stash  nodded.  A  thrill  of  eagerness  to 
be  working  with  old  Fen  after  all  the  years  warmed 
his  heart. 

"Good!"  Fentree  spoke  briskly.  "Let's  go  right 
down  to  the  office  when  we  get  in.  It'll  be  our  best 
time  for  looking  over  everything  alone." 

Lights  began  to  flick  past;  dreary,  empty  squares 
and  dark  meadows;  then  brick  walls;  and  they  rolled 
with  sullen,  hollow  thunder  into  the  train  shed. 

As  they  stepped  into  the  kennelly  darkness  of  the 
short  street  leading  to  Shabbona,  Stash  raised  his  hand 
to  settle  his  cap  in  a  gesture  that  was  like  a  defiance  to 


300      STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

the  dour  dinginess  of  the  station  and  the  town.     It 
had  always  punished  him. 


in 

The  first  dawn  light  was  graying  the  windows  of  the 
old  cupolaed  lavender  house  when  Fentree  led  Stash 
into  the  echoing  big  room  which  he  had  re-fitted  for 
his  office.  The  drop-light's  dismal  radiance  showed 
the  small  safe,  the  letter  files,  the  white  painted  mantel 
with  the  charcoal  remnants  of  last  winter's  fire.  Be- 
fore opening  the  safe  Fentree  drew  back  the  front 
door  and  stood  listening.  The  maples  were  shaking 
softly  with  the  dawn  breeze. 

As  Fentree  knelt  before  the  old  Fairbanks,  Stash 
noted  the  thin  drag  of  his  trousers  against  his  ankles. 
The  safe  door  bore  an  old-fashioned  decoration  of 
apple  blossoms  and  blue  chicory  above  a  rustic  lake 
strand.  Stash  remembered  the  time  when  it  had 
seemed  richly  beautiful  to  him,  when  he  had  fully  be- 
lieved it  a  picture  of  Koban  Lake. 

The  papers  were  soon  spread  under  the  drop-light. 
Fentree  had  taken  the  trouble  to  discover  the  where- 
abouts of  the  witnesses  to  Bolish  and  Jan  Plazarski's 
affidavits.  Before  it  grew  light  outside  they  had 
looked  through  the  letters  that  Walewski  had  written 
Bolish,  and  others  bearing  on  the  transfer  of  the  De- 
troit property  to  Walewski  by  trust  deed.  Before  they 
were  through,  the  fraudulent  contrivance  of  Walewski 
seemed  as  clear  to  Stash  as  it  was  to  Fentree. 

The  lawyer's  thin  jaw  was  set  as  he  locked  the  safe 
and  showed  Stash  the  combination  he  was  using: 
"Memorize  it;  you'd  better;  if  anything  should  hap- 
pen to  me "  His  eyes  looked  startlingly  large  in 


THE  SPLENDID  ENTERPRISE  AT  LAST    301 

their  gloomy  sockets.  They  had  a  mesmeric  effect  on 
Stash,  making  him  feel  as  if  he  were  working  here  at 
some  obscure  evil  game.  But  one  thought  of  Walew- 
ski's  high-boned  face  was  enough  to  make  him  clamp 
his  jaw.  He  hated  with  a  savage,  dull  ache  the  man 
who  had  brought  ruin  on  Bolish  and  Marynia  Plazarski, 
and  Varsh — now  lost  from  sight — on  all  of  them. 


CHAPTER  II 


Even  before  the  arranged  interview  with  Walewski, 
Stash  went  out  to  live  at  the  mine  boarding-house  and 
join  young  Heriot's  rescue  crew  which  was  organizing 
for  the  reopening  of  the  mine.  Kucin  was  on  the  crew, 
and  his  buddy  Ban  had  blandly  demanded  to  be  taken 
on  with  him. 

In  the  meantime  there  were  jolly  evenings  at  Vari- 
ka's,  for  it  was  only  a  two-mile  walk  from  the  mining 
town  to  the  sycamore  grove.  But  the  dark  lake  shore 
was  missing,  and  to  Stash  it  was  not  the  same.  For 
one  thing,  Marika  had  changed. 

They  had  crossed  hands  impulsively  the  first  night, 
as  if  they  could  renew  old  days  at  once.  And  her 
wrists  had  trembled  so  thin  across  his  big  ones  that 
he  had  felt  almost  a  shock  of  fear.  She  was  hardly 
less  gay,  and  taught  clumsy  boys  in  the  Wacaser  Neigh- 
borhood House  the  dumka,  just  as  she  danced  it  under 
the  sycamores  with  Anetka.  But  she  was  no  longer 
his  Rika  girl.  She  was  older,  a  woman.  Perhaps  that 
was  why  he  felt  repulsed — and  resentful — and  bitterly 
tender. 


302     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

He  turned  to  Anetka  at  night,  when  the  lights  were 
dim,  under  the  sycamores,  and  tried  for  a  teasing  mo- 
ment to  imagine  her  the  little  Marika.  It  half  com- 
forted. She  would  snuggle  up  in  her  fresh,  fragrant 
evening  dress.  Ban  would  fiddle  in  swift  zigzags  of 
Czigane  melody.  But  her  very  air  of  throwing  her 
arms  across  his  knee  and  twisting  out  to  look  up  in  his 
face  was  so  much  that  of  a  little  sister  toward  a  much 
older  big  brother.  .  .  .  He  saw  that  he  had  changed. 
He  wondered  then  if  he  had  aged  so  much  in  the  past 
three  years.  He  saw  now  that  he  had  been  far  from 
happy  during  that  time.  A  strange,  wrenching  dis- 
appointment would  seize  him,  as  though  he  could  by 
some  convulsive  effort  bring  back  the  old  times. 

In  the  meantime  he  heard  nothing  from  Rose  Mad- 
don.  Perhaps  she  had  been  staging  a  pretty  picture  of 
herself  in  that  compassionate  yielding  on  the  Georgian. 
But  no — no !  ...  it  had  been  too  heart-racking.  And 
yet  how  far  off  and  unreal  she  seemed  from  this  world 
of  hot  prairie  nights  with  their  sooty,  tragic  oppres- 
sion of  the  mines. 

At  times  the  drill  with  the  crew  seemed  stifling,  use- 
less and  depressing;  but  it  helped  to  smother  the  rest- 
lessness and  wonder  about  the  prospect  which  had 
seemed  but  half  a  week  ago  like  a  vision  down  the  blue 
radiant  avenues  of  a  seer's  crystal. 

II 

The  reddening  sun  slanted  on  the  green  watering 
tank  at  the  foot  of  Varika's  lane.  The  Polish  boy, 
Kola  Brezki,  had  just  brought  up  Marika's  horse, 
Podvodnik.  She  ruffled  its  nostrils  and  laughed  at  its 


pretended  fright :  "Ho — look  at  the  stove  polish  on  his 
nose!" 

Catfish  and  perch  circled  through  the  water.  "And 
see  his  whiskers,  Stash — isn't  he  just  a  catfish  for 
whiskers — then  pretends  he's  afraid  of  them!  Feel 
that  stove-polished  velvet  on  his  nose !  Isn't  he  a  pod- 
vodnik!" 

The  boy  Kola  reached  up  laughingly  to  feel  the  nose. 
Back  of  him  his  tall  brother  Stan  stood  smiling  at 
Marika.  They  both  worshipped  her  as  if  she  were  Our 
Bright  Lady  of  Chenstokowa.  Their  lunch  pails  were 
on  their  arms  to-night,  for  the  mine  was  going  to  open 
at  last. 

Stash,  of  course,  was  on  his  way,  too.  He  held 
Marika's  bridle  on  one  side,  and  Kola  on  the  other, 
while  together  the  four  friends  crossed  the  burnished 
flats  towards  the  purplish  huddle  of  the  mining  town 
on  the  far  northwest  ramp  of  what  had  been  Koban 
Lake. 

in 

"I  wish  they  weren't  going  down  to-night !"  Marika 
exclaimed,  as  they  saw  Kola  and  Stan  off  to  their  work 
on  the  night  shift. 

"Glasson  and  old  Heriot  say  it's  all  right!"  Stash 
threw  out  his  hand. 

"But  old  miners  are  like  old  soldiers,"  said  Marika, 
"they  don't  talk  about  danger.  .  .  .  Isn't  Stan  like  a 
big  brother  dog — you  know  dogs  with  a  noble  face — 
like  that !  I  like  to  hear  him  say — 'Mucha  glad  morn- 
ing!'" 

She  looked  off  at  the  red,  western  sky.  Stash  felt  in 
her  a  mystery  that  puzzled  and  excited  him.  It  was 
as  if  she  were  beautifully  and  wonderfully  in  love  with 


304     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

someone.  He  felt  aggrieved  that  she  could  look  into 
the  lustrous  twilight  as  if  she  saw  there  some  magic 
beyond  his  dreaming.  She — it  seemed — having  passed 
his  boyish  love  by,  had  come  on  some  glory  of  expec- 
tancy. ...  Of  whom? — Of  what?  .  .  . 

She  turned  the  black  horse  on  the  dust-parched 
ramp.  Stash  stood  in  his  grimy  whipcords,  immovable. 
As  he  saw  her  white  forehead  lifted  against  the  marine 
blue  of  the  dusking  sky  he  saw  that  he  had  made  an 
incredible  mistake — that  she  had  not  lost  her.  pretty 
looks  as  he  had  thought — that  she  was  not  only  pretty, 
but  wonderfully  beautiful.  .  .  .  With  the  piercing, 
flying  beauty  of  a  loved  figure  dwindling  on  a  darken- 
ing plain.  .  .  .  Like  harsh  music  that  melts  to  a  chord- 
ing  beauty  far  in  the  night.  .  .  . 

Smiling  back  over  her  shoulder  she  waved  her  hand 
to  him.  So  she  galloped  off,  over  the  red-burnished 
flat,  as  Stash  watched  wonderingly:  the  night  blue 
dusking  first  her  hair  like  the  blue-black  of  Ban's  vio- 
lin, and  then  fairly  obscuring  her  as  she  followed  the 
far,  bending  rim  of  the  old  lake. 


CHAPTER  III 
i 

Stash  passed  down  through  the  sour-smelling 
streets,  and  found  Fentree  arrived  and  talking  with 
Doran,  the  great  hook-faced,  stooping  engineer.  Meet- 
ing young  Heriot  at  the  gates  he  walked  on  with  him 
towards  the  lighted  power-house.  The  coal  dust  had 
begun  to  ride  away  through  the  gaunt  tipple  tower — 
high — like  a  pillar  of  dusky  fire,  turning  the  night 


THE  SPLENDID  ENTERPRISE  AT  LAST    305 

above  it  a  florid  purple.  After  two  vain  efforts  to  re- 
open the  mine  the  third  assault  was  on. 

In  the  hoisting-house  Doran  had  taken  his  place  at 
his  lever,  answering  with  infinite  precision  to  the  clan- 
gor of  the  signal  bell.  In  the  sickly,  lilac-green  drizzle 
of  the  nitrogen  lamp  Stash  caught  a  glimpse  of  Stan 
Brezki,  his  high  arched  head  lit  in  a  wan  splendor. 
The  boy  looked  like  a  shepherd  king. 

Up  out  of  the  vault  sifted  the  darkness  of  the  cage, 
like  the  top  of  a  crude  catafalque.  The  foremost  men 
lunged  aboard  the  lower  deck ;  the  cage  dropped  to  the 
second  deck  level. 

"I  think  I'll  go  down,"  Stash  nodded  to  Heriot,  "if 
you  don't  mind." 

"Good  thing,"  said  Heriot  laconically. 

The  car  shuddered  and  nestled  in  downy  black.  It 
was  like  plumbing  the  hold  of  an  inconceivably  great 
ship,  with  a  menace  of  far-off  fires  lately  drawn.  .  .  . 
Down  .  .  .  down.  ,  .  .  Miles  away  a  bell  twanged 
with  a  harp  note — the  cage  struck  the  sump  water 
with  a  silky  slap,  and  a  little  "hunky"  in  the  third  deck 
gave  a  silly  purr  of  pleasure  in  the  sensation. 

Here  in  the  huge  lighted  scale-room  there  was  a 
humming  of  arc  lights  and  wires  and  of  wind  in  the 
air  courses.  Stash  spoke  briefly  to  old  Heriot,  telling 
him  that  Bob  had  sent  him  down.  The  old  man  nodded 
and  turned  right  back  to  the  unlading  of  timbers  from 
the  freight  hoist.  "Bear  away  to  the  left — thot  gert 
stick  first !" 

Stash  moved  on  to  where  Glasson  and  his  crew  were 
testing  with  pit  lamps  held  cautiously  to  the  entry  ceil- 
ing for  the  white  or  fire  damp.  Suddenly  a  bright 
flame  dropped  with  a  blare  to  their  heads!  Stash 
crouched.  The  alarm  passed.  They  moved  on;  while 


306     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

all  round,  like  a  forest  sounding  its  trees,  the  glum 
body  of  the  mine  lay  entrenched  in  secrecy. 

Stash  turned  to  go  back ;  and  a  strange  feeling  that 
the  mine  was  watching  him  at  every  corner,  whispering 
that  his  fate  was  bound  up  in  it,  followed  him  on.  He 
came  up  with  a  feeling  of  stupor  and  surprise  into  the 
open  air  world,  where  voices  and  laughter  sounded  clat- 
tering and  loose.  He  hurried  down  through  the  hot 
stillness  of  the  summer  night  and  found  Fentree  with 
the  Superintendent  by  the  Balkan  Restaurant.  The 
lawyer  looked  tired,  but  his  eyes  were  sparkling  with 
excitement. 

"You've  been  down  ?  Good.  .  .  .  Who  ? — Glasson  ? 
— Depend  on  him !" 

"Why  don't  you  go  home  now?"  Stash  urged. 

Fentree  brushed  it  aside : 

"Glasson  told  me  the  difference  in  the  new  canvas 
weight  was  enough  to  swing  things.  Of  course  a  real 
blast.  .  .  .  But  then! — the  heavier  brattice  is  going 
to  keep  the  gas  from  seeping.  That's  the  gain." 

"Why  don't  you  go  home?"  Stash  interrupted,  put- 
ting a  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Maybe  I'd  better,"  said  Fentree.  .  .  .  "What  did 
Royd  say  about  the  checking?  .  .  ."  He  turned  sharply 
to  listen  to  a  loud  Slovak  voice — "Well,  we  don'  car'-a- 
damn  now !  If  dat  place  go  to  hell  now,  we  say  to  him, 
'All  right!  go  along  den!  I  guess  we  give  you  long 
enough  to  behave !' ' 

Fentree  gave  a  tired  smile  and  snapped  his  thumb 
nervously:  "If  we  could  only  call  it  a  day! — like  that! 
.  .  .  Well,  to-night's  Walewski's  last.  .  .  .  We  ought 
to  know  to-morrow."  He  frowned;  then  excitedly: 
"We'll  bring  the  fantails  down  here  by  canal — they'll 
bark  right  under  the  tipple!"  He  smiled  exultantly 


THE  SPLENDID  ENTERPRISE  AT  LAST    307 

and  patted  Stash's  shoulder.  He  had  stepped  into  his 
car  when  a  whistle  peeled  wild  and  lonely  over  the  night 
flats.  A  second  soaring  scream  ...  a  third  .  .  .  and 
the  whistle  was  storming  the  night  with  unremitting 
cries. 

An  explosion  underground !  .  .  .  Back  of  the  thrud- 
ding  feet,  the  maddening  shouts,  came  the  women  giv- 
ing cry.  Stash  was  amazed  by  the  bell-like  calmness 
of  the  night  universe  with  its  softly  twinkling  stars. 
A  feeling  of  terrible  irony  was  sickening  his  lungs  as 
he  ran. 

He  caught  up  with  a  gaunt-faced  Pole  running  with 
gulps  of  crying  laughter:  "Oh,  nie!  nie!"  .  .  .  "No! 
no !"  Stash's  heart  echoed. 


A  crowd  walled  up  the  mouth  of  the  mine:  the 
lilac-green  lamp  splashed  wriggling  shapes  on  them. 
A  gray,  terrible  smoke  staggered  up  the  hoist. 

In  the  warehouse  three  men  were  already  in  rescue 
suits.  The  ugly  head  of  the  cage  drifted  up,  and  they 
were  pushed  on. 

"Are  you  ready?"  called  Doran. 

"Ready!"  came  the  signal. 

Doran's  fingers  curved.  .  .  .  The  cage  sagged  with 
a  moan  of  the  brakes.  ...  A  sigh  swept  the  crowd; 
and  the  gray,  gaunt  figure  of  smoke  writhed  and  aired 
its  livid  graces  before  them.  Gradually  the  smoke 
thinned:  the  mine  was  beginning  to  breathr  in.  If 
fire  was  lurking  in  the  depths  a  "repeat"  might  clap 
the  rescue  men  against  the  walls  like  morsels  of  wine- 
soaked  bread.  The  women  crouched  and  rocked  a  little 
together. 


308     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

The  first  motor  car  lights  were  seen  streaming  across 
the  flats  from  Durand,  when  the  bell  jangled  in  the 
hoisting  house  and  everyone  turned  to  the  silhouette 
of  Doran  blocked  against  the  indigo  window.  His  arm 
slid  forward.  .  .  .  Something  was  swimming  up  the 
hoist  .  .  .  something. 

The  three  iron-bulbed  heads  of  the  rescue  men 
swelled  up  under  the  rude  canopy  of  the  cage.  But  it 
was  what  they  carried  that  called  all  eyes.  It  broke 
from  them  snapping  like  a  fish;  burst  its  way  into  the 
shrieking  crowd  and  made  an  anguished  salaam.  A 
motor  searchlight  caught  his  gaping  mouth  like  a  bright- 
red  plug  in  a  rocking  negroid  face.  Several  women 
were  laughing  at  him  in  uncontrollable  hysterics.  He 
hung  out  his  hands  as  if  they  were  dripping  scalding 
tears  of  a  terrible  dissolution.  In  despair  at  finding  no 
position  of  relief  he  salaamed  again — beautifully. 
Hartranft  and  Kucin  led  him  away.  .  .  .  Stash  heard 
somebody  recognize  the  man  in  a  frightened  tone :  "It's 
Laughing  Jesus!"  He  remembered  that  nickname—- 
and the  man :  a  bearded  fellow  with  mournful,  grinning 
face  and  black  eyes  that  followed  one  uncannily.  He 
caught  a  roar  from  the  man's  mouth  as  he  passed,  and 
felt  as  if  he  had  caught  the  very  breath  and  fever  of  the 
thing. 

Drawn  by  some  horrifying  apprehension,  he  followed 
them  to  the  warehouse  door.  Heriot's  voice  shouted 
for  Kucin,  and  the  slight,  bronze-dark  veteran  of  the 
Balkan  War  sprang  up  the  steps.  Stash  saw  the  fool- 
ish, moon-faced  Ban  clinging  to  his  bradder's  hand, 
begging  him  not  to  go  down — staring  as  though  he 
saw  him  already  a  hundred  thousand  miles  away.  .  .  . 
The  helmet  closed  over  the  scorched,  hard  cheeks  and 
Kucin  was  gone. 


THE  SPLENDID  ENTERPRISE  AT  LAST   309 


in 


They  brought  up  nothing  but  dead  pedlar's  bundles. 
.  .  .  Suddenly  ...  it  was  Fentree  who  was  begging 
someone  not  to  go.  ...  A  new,  strange  picture  formed 
before  Stash — he  looked  through  the  window  of  his 
iron  bubble  at  a  far-off,  frantic  Fentree.  It  seemed  a 
foolish  thing — and  yet  he  pitied  him ;  gave  him  a  hard 
squeeze  of  the  hand,  and  was  gone. 

The  three  sea  monsters  stumbled  down  the  steps. 
.  .  .  Somewhere  as  if  far  off  through  the  night 
sounded  a  faint  boom-doom!  ...  A  singing  swoop 
of  air  came  bursting  through  the  hoist  mouth.  .  .  . 
Lights  pitched  .  .  .  voices  roared  .  .  .  frantic  cries 
of  "Glasson!" — "Doran!  .  .  ."  The  Cornishman  gave 
the  word  to  hoist.  .  .  .  The  cage  floated  up — one — 
two — three  empty  decks.  .  .  .  And  Kucin's  rescue 
team?  .  .  . 

Stash  stumbled  onto  the  lower  deck.  Down  they 
pitched  through  the  white  gloom — till  the  sump  took 
them  with  a  splash.  ...  A  pall  of  smoke  that  rumpled 
to  their  push  like  cobwebs  spread  across  their  view. 
Before  them  seemed  a  tundra — or  a  sweep  of  mystic 
marsh  country.  A  stillness  filled  the  entry,  like  the 
bland  dumbness  in  the  galleries  of  a  dead  man's  brain. 

Their  searchlights  made  play  through  the  mist.  .  .  . 
Out  of  the  darkness  ahead  came  a  man — laughing — 
tossing  his  arms  as  if  he  had  discovered  an  under- 
ground ocean  and  gone  mad  with  the  mournful  gran- 
deur of  it.  ...  He  was  walking  backwards!  And 
yet — his  knees  worked  forwards — surely  he  was  fac- 
ing them  .  .  .  but  there  were  as  certainly  no  features 
there.  He  fell  at  their  feet. 


310     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

Heriot  shouldered  the  body  and  stumbled  back.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  Stash's  light  caught  out  a  figure  kneeling 
in  some  frantic,  fearful  rite.  It  leapt  like  a  frightened 
rabbit  to  avoid  those  three  monsters.  Stash  sprang 
after  and  pitched  headlong  on  him — thinking,  too  late, 
of  the  terror  he  had  made  for  the  spongy  creature. .  His 
hands  were  wet  with  him.  He  shouldered  the  thing 
and  plodded  back,  resigned  to  the  stupefying  horror 
of  it. 

IV 

The  crowd  above  waited  in  a  terrible  patience.  The 
signal  clanged.  Doran's  hand  moved  through  the  stars 
at  his  window.  His  face  was  set  like  horn  or  stone  as 
he  started  the  ponderous  thunder  of  the  drums.  Into 
the  cloying  lilac  wash  rose  the  cage. 

Two  of  the  rescue  crew  that  had  been  caught  in  the 
after-blast  were  laid  on  the  ground  and  helmets  re- 
moved. In  the  motor's  headlight  the  hawkish  bronze 
features  of  Kucin  stared  out — beautifully  eagle-like, 
and  dark  with  a  look  of  night.  .  .  .  Fentree's  tortured, 
weeping  face  was  over  him.  Ban  was  called.  And 
all  that  the  poor,  stupid  fellow  could  do  was  to  crouch 
there  and  cry  into  his  kunio  hat.  They  led  him  away — 
making  a  shrill,  foreign  jabber — for  he  couldn't  leave 
off  crooning:  "My  falcon! — my  bright  falcon!" 

Stash  sat  bewildered  where  he  had  taken  off  his 
rescue  suit  in  the  warehouse.  .  .  .  The  thing  went  on 
.  .  .  on.  .  .  .  Later  he  went  down  again,  between 
blasts.  Now  and  again  he  saw  Marika's  flushed  face, 
saw  her  helping  among  the  women.  They  laid  out 
Kucin,  wrapping  him  in  brattice  canvas.  All  at  once 
it  struck  Stash  that  Kucin  was  gone  ...  a  million 
million  miles  away!  He  hadn't  realized  it.  Kucin, 


THE  SPLENDID  ENTERPRISE  AT  LAST    311 

who  had  guarded  the  old  Alhambra,  who  had  begged 
him  to  ask  Marika  to  sing. 

The  night  seemed  unending.  Bundle  after  bundle 
of  shoddy  rags  and  blood  was  brought  up  to  the  sur- 
face. As  one  of  these  was  brought  into  the  flare  Stash 
gave  a  start;  he  called  hoarsely:  "Bring  Kola  Brezki!" 
The  high-arched  head  of  Stan  was  blackened  and 
crushed,  but  the  face  still  held  a  sleeping  nobility. 
Young  Kola  looked  at  it  unbelievingly,  and  tried  to 
bristle  against  such  a  fraud.  This  wasn't  Stanish! 
He  looked  again.  His  breath  stopped  as  if  his  throat 
had  been  locked.  He  stared  about — mouthing  his 
anguish  without  words.  .  .  .  There  was  no  tall  living 
Stan  .  .  .  just  this  thing  of  twisted  rags  and  bursted 
silent  head.  With  a  whimpering  call  he  crouched  down 
and  began  to  smooth  it. 

Slowly  the  mine  buildings  raised  into  the  dawn. 
With  straw  and  canvas  bundles  around  there  was  the 
appearance  of  a  circus  grounds  just  before  the  big 
tent  goes  up.  People  in  fact  were  coming  from  Durand 
to  see  it.  Machines  were  stretching  behind  ghostly 
booms  of  light  across  the  gray  dawn  fields. 

The  hoist  still  floated  up  and  down,  and  each  time 
came  new  fragments.  Doran's  hand  no  longer  moved 
through  the  stars.  The  sky  behind  his  humped  shoul- 
ders was  magic  lantern  blue.  Morning  had  come. 


CHAPTER  IV 


So  far  as  Stash  was  concerned  he  had  given  up 
everything  Fentree's  plans  implied ;  but  he  was  shocked 


312      STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

and  bewildered  when  Fentree  drew  him  into  the  humid 
silence  of  the  office  one  hot  afternoon  and  told  him 
that  after  the  policy  on  the  mine's  resumption  had  been 
decided  they  would  drive  through  the  coercion  of 
Walewski.  Stash  protested  that  he  had  given  up  all 
that ;  wanted  only  to  help  Fentree  readjust  things  and 
get  back  to  McCandlish. 

"No,  no !"  Fentree's  eyes  blazed  fanatically.  "Don't 
you  see  that's  just  what  he's  counting  on  ?  That  we'll 
be  broken  by  this !  Of  course  not ! — don't  you  see  how 
absurd!  If  we  were  right  then,  we're  right  now! 
More  necessary.  .  .  .  If  we  give  up  .  .  ."  His  hand 
jerked  out  with  the  nervous  abandon  of  a  man  who 
recoils  from  the  unnameable  dread  of  owning  himself 
crushed  and  defeated. 

And  when  finally  Maddon-Marantle's  decision  to 
abandon  the  mine  hurled  him  against  the  wall,  he 
stiffened  there  with  fierce  fatalism  and  took  over  other 
legal  affairs  of  theirs  with  a  spirit  of  grim  concentra- 
tion. Nonetheless  he  wrote  Walewski  steadily,  seeking 
an  appointment.  But  the  old  man  had  left  for  De- 
troit, and  nothing  was  heard  of  the  matter  until  the 
night  of  the  Slavonic  Bazaar  to  raise  funds  for  the 
mine  sufferers. 

il 

It  promised  a  hot  starry  night  like  those  of  the  last 
week,  and  Stash  went  out  to  Varikas'  to  ride  in  with 
Marika  to  the  Bazaar.  They  took  the  turn  by  the 
tamaracks  and  passed  down  by  the  old  hostinets.  Stash 
gave  one  backward,  lingering  look  at  the  shadowy 
alders;  and  turned  his  gaze  abruptly  to  the  dun  plain 
of  the  old  lake  bottoms,  where  the  gray  huddle  of  the 
deserted  mining  village  was  fading  into  veils  of  mist. 


THE  SPLENDID  ENTERPRISE  AT  LAST    313 

.  .  .  He  thought  of  how  Marika  had  gone  to  the  vil- 
lage again  and  again,  of  how  he  had  seen  her  stroking 
the  arm  of  a  grief-crazed  Slovak  woman  whose  two 
boys  had  been  crushed.  He  couldn't  see  how  she  could 
throw  herself  into  that  dreary  atmosphere  with  such 
passionate  eagerness,  as  if  to  sate  her  own  heart-ache 
in  its  desolation.  He  himself  was  longing  hungrily, 
feverishly,  after  these  five  weeks  of  helping  Fentree, 
to  get  back  to  Detroit. — Anything  to  escape  the  futility 
that  was  hanging  over  his  life. 

"Are  you  going  on  with  this?"  He  turned  to  her 
abruptly,  startling  the  sorrel  mare  Varika  had  loaned 
him :  "I  mean  staying  at  Miss  Thurman's  House,  and — 
working  with  those  people — trying  to  help  what  you 
can't  change  in  a  hundred  years?  .  .  .  See — your 
father  is  afraid  to  have  you  ride  out  from  town — at 
night.  .  .  .  There's  something  in  the  papers  every 
week — a  shooting  or  something."  They  were  clatter- 
ing into  the  first  brick-paved  street,  which  the  humid 
smelly  dusk  scarcely  softened.  He  frowned  till  his 
forehead  bulged  pink  in  the  slanting  florid  sunset.  "It's 
a  man-killer  town!"  he  hoarsed.  "That's  all!" 

He  knew  that  it,  had  punished  him  again. 

"You  don't  underhand,"  Marika  murmured  harshly, 
but  with  the  harshness  of  repressed  emotion.  "It  isn't 
all  dark — like  ^:he,  mine  trouble.  But  even  if  it  is,  the 
time  comes  when  you  will  not  see  such  a  thing  as  hap- 
piness away  fronVU^m.  When  it's  just  like  you  defy 
the  trouble — and  you  go  on — you  rush  on,  with,  oh — 
like  with  a  shout  of  joy !  Try  to  see,  Stash !  It's  not 
like  you  would  be  going  into  the  dark  hating  it — but 
as  if  you  knew  that  beyond  the  dark  .  .  .  Oh,  Stash, 
what  if  beyond  the  dark  there  is  something  so  beauti- 
ful .  .  .  that  all  the  dark  ...  is  a  thing  to  go  through 


314 

with  just — yes,  with  just  a  shout  of  joy!"  She  had 
felt  her  way  along,  and  finished  with  a  gaze  of  eager- 
ness, as  if  begging  him  to  see. 

He  looked  at  her  fiercely,  trying  to  see!  .  .  .  and 
he  saw  her  flying  fast  like  a  loved  figure  dwindling  on 
a  lonely  plain. 

"But  we  won't  talk  about  all  that,"  Marika  slapped 
her  dust  coat  with  her  whip  sharply ;  "and  I'll  promise 
you  a  great  sight  in  Papa's  tableau." 

ni 

They  stopped  at  the  Park  house  and  learned  that 
Andre  was  over  at  the  office  with  her  father.  Then  at 
the  old  Shieling  place,  where  Stash  tied  the  horses  at 
the  edge  of  the  great  dim  lawn.  Dance  music  was 
pouring  out  of  the  new  hall  of  the  Wacaser  Neigh- 
borhood House  across  the  alley  from  Fentree's  offices. 
Joining  the  straggling  crowd  passing  through  the  rooms 
of  the  old  brick  mansion  they  approached  Varika  slyly 
where  he  sat  with  Karshenko  in  a  pompous  tableau. 

They  puffed  in  solemn  silence  at  their  scenic  painted 
porcelain  pipes,  deigning  no  answer  to  Stash's  ques- 
tions. 

"There  they  sit  like  wax  flowers,"  Marika  laughed, 
"but  just  as  soon  as  we  get  away  they  will  begin  talking 
the  war." 

They  crossed  over  to  Fentree's  office  to  see  Andre; 
she  took  them  up  the  stairway  and  out  on  the  upper 
gallery.  There  they  could  sit  on  the  railing  and  watch 
the  lively  flow  of  light  dresses,  costumes  and  dark 
figures  below,  and  listen  to  the  music.  From  the  dusky 
region  of  Shieling's  lawn  they  heard  a  sharp  whin- 
nying. 


THE  SPLENDID  ENTERPRISE  AT  LAST    315 

"Podvodnik!"  Marika  laughed.  "He  got  himself 
nipped,  I  believe!" 

Andre  went  down  to  her  father  at  length,  leaving 
the  other  two  alone. 

"Do  you  remember  the  night  you  taught  me  the 
stunt  out  here  ?"  Marika  murmured. 

Stash  remembered:  "And  you  were  right  in  for  it. 
You  were  gayer  then." 

Marika  was  silent  a  moment :  "I  knew  you  were  dis- 
appointed, Stash.  I  mean  when  you  came  this  sum- 
mer. .  .  .  Two  years  ago,  too.  It  seems  to  me  .  .  . 
well,  you  are  different,  too." 

"Then  you  were  disappointed  in  me !" 

"No — no !"  She  caught  her  breath,  as  if  she  had 
been  too  eager  in  denial. 

"I  wasn't  disappointed,  Rika,  I  wasn't.  .  .  .  Ex- 
cept in  myself.  It's  always  been  this  way,  that  I  could 
never  stand  true  to  things — like  you  can.  Always  I'm 
wanting  something  new  to  come  up  ...  something 
more  splendid  than  ever  before!  So  that  I  could  lead 
it! — So  that  I  could  picture  myself  .  .  .  like  Rose 
Maddon  says.  Anything  that  looks  tiresome  to  me, 
like  sticking  to  something  I  once  knew — like  their  old 
swoboda  over  here ! — I  can't  see,  I  can't  fire  myself  at ! 
Why  is  itffRika,  why?  ...  I  couldn't,  I  couldn't  go 
through  the  dark,  like  you  say." 

"Yes,  you  did  once,  Stash,  yes,  you  did!"  Her  voice 
quivered  with  her  effort  to  thrust  her  faith  in  him  into 
his  own  heart. 

"But  that  .  .  ."  Stash's  voice  ground  angrily,  "but 
that  I  failed  in !  ...  I  went  to  Buffalo  once  .  .  .  and 
to  Toledo.  .  .  .  But  I  ought  to've  gone  again  .  .  . 
and  again.  ...  I  gave  up  finding  her.  .  .  .  Oh,  Rika, 
I  don't  stick  by  things.  ...  Or  the  people  I  love  most ! 


316     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

Always  something  splendid  or  wonderful  I  must  have 
...  or  I'm  no  good." 

"But  you  did  once,  Stash,  and  you  will  again  .  .  . 
till  it  grows  .  .  .  till  you  see  the  wonderful  in  just 
that!" 

He  saw  the  flash  of  dim  lamplight  in  her  eyes  .  .  . 
and  it  was  as  if  he  caught  a  flickering  glimpse  of  stars 
shining  deep  in  a  glorious  darkness. 

After  a  silence  he  spoke  again:  "If  you  only  knew, 
Rika,  knew  why  I  came  down  here  .  .  .  what  you'd 
think  of  me!  To  make  old  Whaleback  give  up  what 
he  stole  from  my  family.  .  .  .  It's  gone  to  great 
money,  Rika.  .  .  .  Detroit  land!  .  .  .  And  ships! 
.  .  .  He's  got  a  good  start  again.  .  .  .  And  the  coal 
mine  ...  I  was  going  to  have  interests  in  that,  that 
was  crooked  from  the  start.  But  I  didn't  care — be- 
cause that's  the  thing  that  gets  me:  money — glory — - 
the  lakes!  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  a  Princess.  .  .  .  I've  been  a 
fool,  Rika  .  .  .  /  wanted  to  climb  into  glory!  And 
now  I've  sort  of  lost  heart.  .  .  .  The  papers  are  there 
in  Fen's  safe  ...  to  gouge  it  out  of  him — the  old 
man.  ...  I  could  take  it  up  and  go  on !  I  could  have 
it  all  maybe !  Sometimes  I'm  mad  to  do  it  even  now 
...  to  leave  all  that  I  know  I  ought  to  like  behind 
...  to  smash  it  down  and  go  on.  .  .  .  /  could  do  it! 
.  .  .  But  something,  now,  holds  me  back.  ...  I  don't 
know  if  it  was  that  night  of  the  mine  blast  ...  or 
...  or  what." 

"It's  because  you  do  stand  true,  Stash!"  her  voice 
was  leaping,  crying  softly,  "because  you  do  stand 
true!" 

"Do  If"  he  begged  her  eagerly,  uncertainly. 

"You  do — you  will ! — because  that's  the  finest  of  all 
there  is — that's  the  most  splendid  1" 


THE  SPLENDID  ENTERPRISE  AT  LAST    317 

Again  he  caught  the  gleam  in  her  eyes — of  stars 
beyond  a  glorious  dark. 


IV 

Andre  joined  them,  and,  passing  downstairs,  they 
looked  in  at  Fentree  bending  over  his  desk.  "Can't  we 
get  him  to  stop  awhile,"  Andre's  voice  whispered  anx- 
iously in  Stash's  ear,  "and  get  him  out  of  this  house? — 
It's  bad  for  him." 

Fentree  looked  up  sharply,  and  came  out  to  Stash. 
He  took  him  into  the  room  whose  dingy  white  enamel 
had  seen  the  organization  of  the  Koban  Industrial 
Company,  and  led  him  over  by  one  of  the  French  win- 
dows. Stash  noted  the  perspiration  in  the  lawyer's 
hollowed  temples.  He  was  never  to  forget  this  mo- 
ment: its  saddening  feeling  of  what-might-have-been, 
trailing  the  echoes  of  Marika's  voice  into  the  Tatra 
gipsy  song  now  swinging  from  the  cembalon  and  vio- 
lins next  door. 

"Have  you  seen  Rose  Maddon?"  Fentree  asked 
abruptly. 

"No!"  said  Stash  with  a  start.  It  was  as  if  a 
fragrant  scarf  had  slanted  suddenly  across  his  face 
.  .  .  that  name. 

"Perhaps  she  just  got  here.  She  stopped  me — go- 
ing over  the  ridge.  She  said  something  had  got  on 
her  nerves  .  .  .  she  was  afraid  all  the  time.  About 
her  father — and  us  too.  Yes,  she  had  heard  my  name 
and  yours  connected  in  some  threat.  Where? — I  don't 
know! — they're  floating  around.  Just  as  I  told  her, 
it'll  be  easier  to  handle  the  roughs  after  the  crowd's 
got  back  to  work.  It'll  clear  up.  She  asked  me  if 
I  had  heard  of  a  man  called  'Laughing  Jesus.' ' 


318     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

"I  know!"  Stash  winced,  "he  got  smashed — crushed 
in  a  fall — trying  to  save  Stan  Brezki  .  .  .  that  night." 

"Yes,"  said  Fentree,  "he  must  have  gone  to  the 
Marantle  hospital.  He  and  a  fellow  named  Drumgoole 
are  running  a  gang.  She  looked  hurried  and  fright- 
ened when  she  mentioned  his  name.  I've  got  to  think- 
ing since,  maybe  she  wants  to  see  you.  She  said  she'd 

"It  can't  be  of  any  account,"  said  Stash  hurriedly, 
the  blood  ringing  in  his  ears.  He  saw  that  Andre  and 
Marika  had  come  back  to  the  door  for  him.  They 
were  ready  to  go  across  to  hear  Vladika's  speech. 


The  hall  next  door  was  full,  and  there  seemed  to  be 
a  vague  disorder  that  the  sturdy  Czech's  thundering 
speech  could  hardly  account  for.  Turbulent  groups 
in  the  back  of  the  big  room  seemed  restlessly  coming 
and  going. 

There  was  a  tumultuous  talking  on  the  stairway 
when  the  speech  was  over.  Suddenly  a  more  power- 
ful voice  than  any — belonging  to  a  young  Czech  who 
wore  his  tableau  costume — shouted  "Hej  Slauani! 
Swoboda!" 

Stash  looked  back  to  see  an  unconscious  tableau  of 
portentous  Slav  figures — a  little  cluster  of  Czech  and 
Polish  boys  who  had  sworn  to  go  back  for  the  fight 
and  for  Swoboda!  The  wild  cymbals  and  violins 
were  crashing  into  "Poland  Shall  Not  Die." 

Marika  had  lost  sight  of  Andre;  so  she  and  Stash 
crossed  to  the  old  house  again.  Fentree's  light  was 
still  burning.  The  rear  rooms  were  dark.  But  Marika 


THE  SPLENDID  ENTERPRISE  AT  LAST   319 

whistled,  calling:  "Andre — Andre!  ...  I  thought  I 
heard  someone  there,"  she  murmured. 

They  turned  back  to  Fentree's  office.  ...  A  low 
rumbling  uproar  burst  behind  them.  .  .  .  They  were 
swept  into  the  lighted  room.  Fentree  started  up  in 
dazed  protest,  his  chair  clattering  behind  him.  A  black 
muffled  man  with  a  brown  beard  sprang  for  the  chair 
and  whirled  it  aloft.  Stash  saw  that  it  was  the  man 
Laughing  Jesus.  Drumgoole,  with  his  turtle  face  of 
tired  depravity,  slid  across  the  room  and  pulled  the 
shade.  It  was  all  strangely,  horribly  silent. 

Stash  hurled  himself  from  left  to  right,  his  breath 
whistling  between  his  teeth.  He  felt  that  two  men 
were  holding  him;  he  could  see  the  man  who  held 
Marika — a  big  horse-faced  man.  Marika's  face  was 
white,  with  dartling  red  spots.  Her  eyes  flashed 
wildly  to  the  man  Laughing  Jesus,  who  brought  the 
chair  down  over  Fentree's  head  in  such  a  way  that  the 
legs  pinned  his  shoulders.  He  sank  to  the  floor  groan- 
ing. The  bearded  man  tied  his  own  black  handker- 
chief around  his  mouth,  and  swung  him  to  the  men 
in  the  hall. 

"Now !" — he  whirled  to  Stash  with  the  chair  in  his 
hands — "Let  him  go! — /  say!" 

The  two  men  relaxed  their  hold  .  .  .  and  Stash 
sprang  for  Laughing  Jesus.  .  .  .  The  cry  choked  in 
Marika's  throat.  .  .  . 

The  brown-bearded  man  had  met  him  with  a  crash- 
ing blow  over  the  head.  Stash  broke  it  with  one  arm ; 
but  the  fall  against  the  fireplace  fender  seemed  unend- 
ing— a  reeling  gulf  of  blackness;  and  when  the  room 
came  back  in  jagged  flashes  and  he  tried  to  shout,  he 
felt  that  only  half  of  him  was  left,  that  he  was  strug- 


320     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

gling  with  the  fragments  of  himself,  from  which  his 
arm  and  neck  and  half  his  head  were  missing. 

He  heard  plainly :  "Now  open  dat  safe ! — don'  you 
want  some  more?  .  .  .  Dat  safe!"  The  man's  blood- 
shot eyes  were  thrilling  into  him.  He  tried  to  speak, 
and  merely  made  gasping  movements  with  his  throat. 
He  lifted  on  his  elbow,  and  his  face,  flushing  with  a 
resurge  of  blood,  grew  frantic,  desperate.  He  tot- 
tered to  his  feet,  and  shook  his  defiance  with  the  one 
fist  that  was  his. 

Another  lightning  blow  from  the  dark-eyed  man 
sent  him  into  the  grate  and  blackened  embers. 

The  raging  man  held  out  a  key — shining  new. 

Stash  gasped:  "Where  did  you  get  that?" — but  no 
sound  came  from  his  throat.  He  saw  that  there  had 
been  some  treachery.  .  .  .  Walewski!  ...  he  had 
hired  them  ...  to  get  the  papers. 

"Give  me  just  dem  figures — quick!"  And  Laugh- 
ing Jesus  held  a  blue  barreled  revolver  against  Stash's 
bleeding  ear. 

Marika  sprang  frantically  from  the  arms  of  the 
horse- faced  man,  who  was  roaring:  "The  combina- 
tion, by  God,  quick!" 

"He  can't  speak!"  she  rasped  in  the  ghost  of  a  voice. 
"He  can't  talk!"  It  had  come  to  her  with  a  horrible 
clearness  that  the  demon,  Laughing  Jesus,  would  send 
death  crashing  into  Stash's  ear  in  another  minute — 
unless  he  spoke — and  that  something  had  taken  away 
his  voice. 

She  threw  herself  above  him,  with  arms  raised,  cry- 
ing still:  "He  can't  speak!" 

The  wild  brain  of  Laughing  Jesus  seemed  to  grasp 
it  vaguely; — but  a  hammering  on  the  front  door  sent 
a  thrill  of  furor  through  the  black  and  blood-shot  eyes 


THE  SPLENDID  ENTERPRISE  AT  LAST    321 

and — twisting1  Marika's  arm  by  the  thin  wrist — he 
seemed  to  drive  the  barrel  into  Stash's  ear.  "De  fig- 
ures!" he  roared.  And  that  roar  seemed  to  blur, 
seemed  to  freeze  Marika's  wits  like  a  poison  vapor. 
She  saw  that  blue  barrel  growing  out  of  Stash's  bronze 
head — saw  it  shattering  before  her  eyes — if,  if,  if  she* 
did  not!  ...  Oh,  Stash!  .  .  . 

With  a  rage  that  seemed  to  grind  aside  great  doors 
in  her  brain,  she  burst  into  a  crystal  of  super  clear- 
ness .  .  .  dazzling  colors  danced  before  her — the  red 
wires  in  Laughing  Jesus'  eyes — the  purple  barrel — the 
brown  beard — the  white  mantel — the  black  embers ! .  .  . 
She  snatched  one  of  those  embers  in  her  free  hand  and 
put  it  in  Stash's,  crying: 

"Write — he  will  write!"  Guiding  his  hand  against 
the  white  enamel  she  helped  him  scrawl:  "3  left  4 
right  /  left" 

Laughing  Jesus  plunged  across  to  the  safe,  while  the 
hammering  on  the  door  boomed  louder.  The  bearded 
man  flung  a  shot  from  his  revolver  through  the  panel. 
A  shout  rang  out. 

"Tom!"  screamed  Marika. 

In  another  moment  the  French  window  crashed  in 
with  a  splintering  rain  of  glass,  and  Karshenko,  like 
a  gipsy  giant,  burst  through  and  fronted  Laughing 
Jesus — who  leapt  from  the  safe  with  hi^  gun  on  the 
deadly  hang.  .  .  .  His  eyes  wavered  ...  he  fell  back 
a  step  ...  he  failed  somehow  to  shoot. 

In  that  instant  Karshenko  had  sprung  low  for  his 
hips  and  sent  him  crashing  against  the  safe.  Tom 
Shieling  had  swung  in  behind  him  and  Hartranft,  Tom 
twisting  a  torn  sleeve  around  a  bleeding  arm. 

Fentree  staggered  in  from  the  hall.  The  others — 
with  Drumgoole — had  slipped  out.  The  wolf  leader 


322     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

was  alone:  his  eyes  flicking  wildly  about  as  he  lifted 
himself  from  the  fancy  paneled  safe. 

"We  got  you,  my  boy!"  shouted  the  blacksmith. 
But  at  that  moment  the  wolf  man  sprang  for  his  re- 
volver; and  again  Karshenko,  catching  him  by  the 
coat  sleeve,  whirled  around  and  sent  him  crashing 
against  the  wall.  The  blacksmith  now  snatched  up  the 
revolver  and  leveled  it  on  Laughing  Jesus. 

Shieling  had  helped  Stash  to  his  feet,  and  he  stood 
staring  at  the  wolf  man  with  the  same  twisting  un- 
canny feeling  in  his  brain.  .  .  .  Blood  was  pouring 
from  the  fellow's  forehead,  and  he  was  breathing  in 
great  gasps,  but  tried  to  smile:  "You  got  me,  cull! 
— but  say,  I  want  to  tell  you — if  I  could  get  my  wind— 
I  would  go  you  again — but  I  ain'  ...  I  ain'  right 
.  .  .  since  dat  time!  .  .  ." 

Stash  knew  he  meant  the  mine  blast;  and  Fentree 
must  have  guessed  his  meaning,  for  he  too  stared  with 
the  same  fascination. — And  Marika  suddenly  drew 
tighter  the  arm  supporting  Stash  as  if  some  terrible 
surmise  had  come  to  her. 

The  wolf  man's  eyes  began  to  swim ;  and  he  clucked 
his  tongue  rapidly  and  foolishly  in  the  roof  of  his 
mouth — in  embarrassment  and  search  of  what  to  say. 
But  Tom  Shieling's  grasp  on  his  arm  galvanized  his 
energy,  and  he  began  a  terrible  struggle  with  Shieling 
and  the  blacksmith,  shouting,  twisting  like  a  huge  fish, 
glaring  with  his  black,  blood-misted  eyes. 

At  last  they  held  him  secure:  one  arm  bent  back 
on  either  side  and  his  head  toppled  back  against  the 
top  cornice  of  the  safe.  His  torn  black  shirt  showed 
his  straining  white  chest  and  arm,  and  his  eyes  rov- 
ing out  over  them  looked  as  though  he  were  laugh- 
ing. In  some  insane,  grotesque  way  he  seemed  hang- 


THE  SPLENDID  ENTERPRISE  AT  LAST    323 

ing  there  by  his  outstretched  arms — prefiguring  his 
sinister  nickname — Laughing  Jesus.  But  when  he 
straightened  his  head  they  saw  that  he  was  crying  in- 
stead of  laughing : 

"Oh,  God!  .  .  .  don'  send  me  back  there!" 

"Where — the  pen?"  demanded  Hartranft. 

The  man  nodded :  "I  can'  stand  that !  I  had  my 
pluck  wid  me — but  God! — dey  give  me  de  hole!  .  .  . 
In  de  dark  I  sees  her  white  feet  comin' — in  a  little 
white  shoe — on-a-comin' — on-a-comin' ! — like  I  use'  to 
see — 'Christ  lift  me!'  I  hollers.  .  .  .  Den  dey 
come! — "  he  drew  a  long,  quivering  breath.  ..."  'I 
know  what  he  wants !'  Harris  say,  'calling  God  for  dem 
feet!—' " 

The  wolf  man  was  no  longer  staring  at  them,  but 
straight  ahead  into  some  terrible  mirage  of  memory; 
and  studding  points  of  fear  prickled  in  their  brains  as 
they  watched. 

"  'Give  it  to  um  lying!'  he  say — an'  den — /  couldn' 
get  round  it  no  way,"  screamed  the  wolf  man,  "I  was 
tied!" 

The  loudest  noise  in  the  room  was  the  long  hys- 
terical breaths  he  was  dragging.  Suddenly  Karshenko 
gave  a  horrible  grunt — or  groan.  He  twisted  the 
man's  bare  arm  so  that  a  purple  scar  caught  the  light 
—such  a  scar  as  he  had  seen  on  Varsh's  arm  in  the 
blacksmith  shop. 

He  caught  him  by  the  shoulder,  bellowing  hoarsely : 
"Why  didn't  you  tell  me,  boy — for  Christ  Jesits! — is 
it  you,  boy!"  He  was  stroking  the  man's  bare  arm 
gently  now,  or  swinging  off  to  clash  his  great  hands 
together  in  an  anguish  of  grief.  "What  dey  doin'  to 
you,  boy?"  he  muttered  vaguely. 

Stash  stood  as  if  paralyzed.     It  seemed  to  him  a 


324     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

dream.  A  vast  roaring  in  his  head  ...  as  of  some 
tremendous  ship's  engines  .  .  .  and  a  feeling  of  in- 
stability as  if  he  were  moving — moving  on  ...  con- 
fused his  senses.  .  .  .  The  white  paneling  of  the  room 
was  like  a  ship's.  .  .  .  Did  they  mean  it  was  Varshf 
.  .  .  But  Varsh  couldn't  be  here.  .  .  .  This  was  that 
man  Laughing  Jesus  who  had  tried  to  save  Stan  Brezki 
in  Koban  mine  .  .  .  Yet  Varsh's  merry-mournful  eyes 
.  .  .  He  tried  to  speak — if  he  could  only!  .  .  . 

He  shivered  as  that  Laughing  Jesus  approached  him. 
...  It  was  Varsh's  tearful  grin  wrung  dry :  "Say, 
Stash^a-boy! — I  didn't  mean  ta — I  been  crazy  against 
you,  dat's  right! — after  dat  time  you  t'row  me  at  de 
theatre.  .  .  .  Oh,  God!  boy,  you  brought  dat  man  to 
spoil  it  all  for  me!  Say  you  did,  boy!  So  she  got 
all  strange!  .  .  .  Say  you  did!" 

Stash  made  an  uncouth  noise. 

A  sudden  start  of  pity  came  to  Varsh's  face:  "I 
forget  you  can'  speak "  He  patted  Stash' s  shoul- 
der. .  .  .  "I — I'm  sorry — I  have  to  make  myself  crazy 
to  do  it,  Stash-boy!"  He  gave  a  great  whinnying 
shout  as  he  threw  up  his  arms :  "I  thought  you  all  go 
against  me !  .  .  .  You  was  in  dat  mine  business !  .  .  . 
an'  you!  .  .  ."  he  pointed  to  Fentree,  whose  damp  tem- 
ples shone  pallidly  ...  "I  ain'  been  well  since 
den  .  .  ."  he  apologized,  with  hands  outthrown  and 
that  tearful  smile  wrenched  dry. 

Marika  reached  out  and  took  his  hand  with  its  black 
sleevse  stripped  back.  He  put  his  other  on  it — then 
found  that  he  had  bloodied  hers  and  tried  to  slick  it 
off  with  his  dirty  sleeve.  .  .  .  Then  burst  into  a  rage 
of  horrible  sobbing.  .  .  . 

He  sprang  back  and  shouted  at  them:  "I  can' — I 
can' — Goddam  you  all  ...  to  hellf  .  .  .  you  can' 


THE  SPLENDID  ENTERPRISE  AT  LAST    325 

hold  me  ...  I'm  goin' !"  he  roared ;  and  before  they 
could  move,  he  had  lashed  through  the  window  and 
vanished  in  the  hot  night. 


CHAPTER  V 


The  next  morning  Stash  looked  out  into  the  grove- 
like  depths  of  the  Park  house  yard.  He  had  wakened 
with  a  start  from  anguished,  delirious  dreaming.  He 
was  whispering  rapidly  and  jerkily  when  Mrs.  Fen- 
tree  came  into  the  room : 

"You  tell  Fen  to  ...  it's  all  right.  .  .  .  Varsh  had 
to  go  that  way  .  .  .  and  I  will  too  .  .  .  because  all 
the  Plazarskis  .  .  .  that's  what  they  say.  .  .  .  When 
I  get  out  of  this  haunted  house,  I'll  show  him  .  .  . 
not  to  worry.  .  .  .  It's  not  Rose  Maddon  steering  the 
music  ship  .  .  .  just  her  ghost  ...  I  can  tell  that," 
he  nodded  sagely,  "because  she's  singing  in  such  a  lil' 
girl's  voice.  .  .  .  But  Marika's  the  star  that  will  get 
me  out  of  it.  ...  Tell  Fen  not  to  worry.  .  .  ." 

He  staggered  to  his  feet  in  the  disheveled  clothes  of 
last  night,  looming  tall  and  haggard  above  her.  "I'll 
tell  him — I'll  tell  him !"  she  pushed  him  gently  back  to 
the  bed,  where  he  subsided,  and  fell  into  sounder  sleep. 

And  she  did  repeat  to  Fentree,  pacing  below,  such 
parts  of  Stash's  delirious  message  as  she  thought  might 
help  him.  There  was  more  need  than  ever  for  Andre 
to  be  near  her  father.  As  Stash  grew  better  in  the 
cooler  days  that  followed,  he  heard  them  talking  and 
walking  on  the  flagged  walk  below  his  window. 


326    STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

II 

Louise's  announcements  were  hurried  out;  and  a 
vacation  forced  on  Fentree.  Yet  he  walked  down- 
town to  his  new  office  every  day,  Stash  now  accom- 
panying him. 

"I  suppose  it's  time  for  me  to  give  up  the  hard 
fighting,"  Fentree  said.  "Louise  will  be  married  .  .  . 
I  can  let  down." 

Stash  glanced  aside  at  him :  it  seemed  pitiful  to  be 
talking  of  giving  up  what  had  been  crushed  out  of  One. 
As  for  himself,  he  could  plan  nothing.  A  gulf  di- 
vided him  from  the  past. 

It  was  only  when  with  Marika  that  he  felt  an  eager- 
ness and  vague  wistful  intent.  Since  Marika  had 
saved  him  that  night  from  Varsh  she  had  held  herself 
in  a  tender  detachment.  And  yet  at  times  she  would 
come  so  near  to  him:  clenching  his  hand  in  both  of 
hers;  telling  him  that  he  could  not  give  up!  "Ever 
since  that  day,"  she  said,  "when  you  came  out  after 
I  told  you  I  wouldn't  go  to  that  party  with  you — when 
you  took  it  so  gay  as  if  I  hadn't  been  mean! — and  saved 
me  from  such  a  feeling!" — she  struck  her  fist  against 
her  breast — "I've  so  wanted  to  pay  you  back, 
Stash!  .  .  .  never  can  forget  that  time,  never!  .  .  . 
See,  I  would  do  anything  for  you  .  .  .  even  after  I 
knew  you  loved  her" 

Stash  stripped  a  scale  of  bark  from  a  crooked  syca- 
more where  many  initials  had  been  carved.  "Maybe  I 
did — sometimes,"  said  he,  "but  I  think  it  was  because 
she  was  always  the  little  Princess  to  me  .  .  .  Rose 
M  addon.  ..." 

"Yes,  just  her  name  charms  you,  I  know !"  Marika 
turned  her  wistful  smile  away  from  him.  "But,"  she 


THE  SPLENDID  ENTERPRISE  AT  LAST    327 

added,  "you  don't  mention  the  rest  of  it — that  she  was 
sweet  and  beautiful." 

"That  was  while  I  was  with  her  ,that  I  thought 
that,"  Stash  muttered;  "but  you  .  .  .  even  when  I've 
been  away  .  .  .  I've  seen  you!  .  .  .  just  as  if  you 
called !  .  .  .  And  I  was  too  busy  in  fool  schemes  to 
go.  ...  I  was  just  too  crazy  to  know  I  wanted  you, 
and  .  .  .  wanted  you,  Rika!"  He  was  carried  away 
by  his  own  desolate  clear  vision  of  it. 

"Almost  any  time,"  Marika  responded  feverishly,  "I 
would  have — oh,  gone  just  anywhere  if  you  had  said! 
.  .  .  But  then  a  time  came  when  I  had  to  be  happy 
without  you  .  .  ."  she  paused ;  and  Stash  saw  the  hot 
moody  summertime  when  he  had  refused  the  call  of 
a  little  Marika  trying  to  be  happy  without  him.  He 
reached  for  her  hand,  but  she  did  not  respond.  She 
was  gazing  out  across  the  sunny  flats  with  a  rigid, 
passionate  intentness :  "And  I  learned  to  love  some- 
thing— oh,  terribly! — so  no  matter  how  bad  it  looked 
I  could  go  into  it,  yes,  just  with  a  feeling  of  glory!" 

She  turned  back  with  her  caught-up  smile:  "It's 
like  a  mother  loves  a  mean,  plain  baby — hardest!  .  .  . 
There's  such  lots  of  plain  babies,  too!"  she  smiled. 
"Oh,  Stash!"  her  eyes  blazed,  "I  turned  everything 
I  loved  into  loving  all  those  poor,  terrible  people,  like 
at  Koban  mines.  .  .  .  And  it  was  grander,  more  won- 
derful, more  like  a  beautiful,  terrible  music  that  goes 
on  forever — shining,  and  shining — and  shining!" 

Stash  stood  bewildered,  his  brain  prickling  with  won- 
der and  fear.  Her  eyes  were  shining  .  .  .  with  tears. 

"People"— she  added  harshly— ''like  Varsh." 

He  saw  for  the  first  time  how  much  he  had  lost; 
but  at  the  same  moment  he  caught  a  flash  of  the 
miracle  that  had  dawned  for  Marika:  a  miracle  that 


328     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

made  a  music  of  desolation,  that  might  even  rush  him 
on  through  the  consolation  his  aching  mind  sought — 
into  a  dread  darkness  which  suddenly — seen  through 
her  words — became  grandly  beautiful!  —  Like  the 
blacksmith's  pity  for  Varsh.  All  of  this  coursed 
,  through  his  mind  in  fragmentary  whirling,  dying  away 
at  last  into  the  heartache  that  he  had  earned  for  him- 
self. 

CHAPTER  VI 


At  Louise's  wedding  he  saw  Rose  once  more.  Her 
smiling,  laughing  manner  was  in  strange  disparity 
with  the  white  refinement  that  sadness  or  worry  had 
worked  about  her  pointed  chin  and  lips.  Where  ill- 
ness or  sadness  made  Marika's  features  too  poignant, 
it  gave  an  added  beauty  to  Rose  Maddon's  small  red 
lips  and  curving  brows. 

"I  feel  as  if  since  yesterday  one  of  my  wickedness' 
is  wiped  out,"  she  told  him,  as  they  wandered  away 
from  the  room  where  Louise's  presents  were  on  inspec- 
tion: "they  looked  for  me,  real  hopefully,  to  worship 
Hugh.  I  almost  did — until  I  saw  they  counted  on  it. 
Just  like  me  to  turn  right  about,  wasn't  it?" 

"And  do  your  worshipping  farther  East,"  Stash 
added.  They  fell  silent,  as  if  a  slight  estrangement, 
rather  sad  than  unfriendly,  had  come  between  them. 

"She'll  be  happy,"  said  Rose,  "I  think.  I'm  sorry 
about  Mr.  Janvier.  Andre's  too  brave  to  show  it.  It 
seemed  to  me  as  though  when  she  spoke  of  his  going, 
her  lip  quivered."  Her  own  lip  faltered  as  she  spoke. 

Stash  nodded :    "He'll  be  down  to  say  good-bye  this 


THE  SPLENDID  ENTERPRISE  AT  LAST 

week  before  he  goes  to  Valcartier.     You  know  he  was 
born  in  Canada." 

Rose  Maddon  nodded  in  return.  "Seeing  Louise 
married  here  in  this  house  is  as  if  I  had  seen  my  own 
girl-time  here  finished  out,  and  said  good-bye  to  it" 
They  had  come  to  the  front  gate.  She  turned  impul- 
sively and  put  out  her  hand  to  his :  "Good-bye,  Stash!" 
It  seemed  to  him  that  her  under  lip  faltered  again,  as 
she  said  "Good-bye." 

n 

Janvier's  visit  coincided  with  the  strange  offer  that 
came  to  Stash  through  Fentree.  In  the  excitement  of 
the  Canadian's  departure  the  effect  of  Maddon- 
Marantle's  offer  on  Stash  was  hardly  noticed — unless 
by  Fentree.  It  was  merely  a  verbal  invitation  through 
the  lawyer,  but  with  its  promise  of  rapid  preferment 
came  a  freshening  rumor  of  Rose  Maddon's  faltering 
good-bye  voice,  floating  in  Stash's  ear  with  a  lingering 
chime  and  promise  of  her  own.  A  queer  creeping 
thrill  awoke  in  his  heart — coursed  on  to  the  tips  of  his 
mind  and  body.  It  was  like  a  shudder  of  returning 
happiness — happiness,  that  had  died  in  his  heart  long 
ago.  Could  it  be! — could  it  be  that  all  this  chaos  of 
the  last  months  was  a  bad  dream  that  could  be  folded 
away! — and  in  time  forgotten?  .  .  .  Could  it  be  that 
Rose  Maddon — little  Rose  Maddon,  whose  name  was 
like  the  caress  of  a  perfumed  scarf  across  his  lips, 
whose  darling  pinky  image  had  first  excited  his  small 
boy  fancy— could  it  be  that  such  a  Rose  had  flung  him 
a  token  and  a  sign?  He  guessed  by  Fentree's  elation 
that  the  offer  could  only  have  come  with  Maddon's 
cognizance.  He  tried  to  picture  the  event  between 
Rose  and  her  father  that  might  have  brought  it  about. 


330     STASH  OF  THE^  MARSH  COUNTRY 

Had  she  accused  him  of  wronging  or  injuring  Stan 
Plazarski?  He  frowned  at  this  thought  .  .  .  and 
then  smiled  a  wistful,  eager  smile.  His  mind  seemed 
torn  this  way  and  that.  He  bit  the  lips  that  muttered 
her  name.  He  walked  about  like  a  man  in  a  dream. 

Little  wonder  that  in  such  a  condition  he  found  a 
poignant  meaning  in  Janvier's  farewell : 

"If  you  ever  feel,"  the  stocky  fellow  ended,  "that 
you're  at  a  loose  end,  Plazarski,  and  it's  going  to  make 
a  good  many  feel  that  way — this  war — there's  a  way 
out.  Don't  come  on  a  chance — but  if  something  pulls 

you I'll  write  you  occasionally."  He  gripped 

Stash's  hands. 

His  last  words  to  Andre  were  different :  "Do  you 
remember  a  long  time  ago  when  I  asked  you  to  pardon 
me  that  someone  had  stepped  on  my  face?" 

Andre  looked  at  the  stern  short  face  with  the  mas- 
terful greenish-hazel  eyes,  and  nodded,  smiling :  "Your 
accordion  face — it  was  on  the  Lady  Island." 

"Of  course  it  was,"  said  Janvier.  "I  wondered  if 
you'd  remember." 

"Remember!"  said  Andre  scornfully,  and  winking 
fiercely. 

"Well,  my  heart,  too,  I  spoke  about  that,  didn't  I  ? 
Before  you  stepped  on  it  France  had  made  it  go  zooch! 
And  will  you  pardon  me  that,  too? — that  she  made  it 
go  zooch  first?" 

Andre  could  find  nothing  to  say,  but  patted  the 
rocky,  somehow  noble  face  for  answer. 

The  day  after  Raoul's  leave  brought  word  of  Varsh's 
arrest  at  Turba.  He  was  held  to  answer  with  two 
other  strikers  for  the  Turba  Tower  explosion.  Tony 
Marzak  brought  Stash  the  secret  news  that  Karshenko 
had  gone  north  to  get  the  boy !  This  would  have  been 


THE  SPLENDID  ENTERPRISE  AT  LAST    331 

enough  to  confuse  Stash's  plans.  But  after  that  came 
the  stunning  message  that  he  should  be  at  Varika's 
on  the  night  of  the  seventh  and  hold  himself  ready 
until  that  time  for  any  call  to  help. 

Again  his  mind  was  in  chaos :  he  could  think  of  no 
way  out.  He  had  a  feeling  that  Varsh  had  been 
"goated"  or  "framed" — as  Tony  said.  And  yet  he 
recoiled  from  the  thought  of  outraging  the  law.  It 
was  wrong — wrong!  Even  if  Varsh  was  the  victim 
of  some  snarl  of  injustice  and  evil  fate,  it  was  wrong. 
And  if  Varsh  was  guilty — it  was  doubly  wrong.  Yet 
the  answer  was  easy  from  one  angle :  to  hold  aloof  and 
let  events  take  their  course — to  accept  Maddon's  offer 
and  plunge  into  work. 

But  he  could  not  work!  He  found  himself  use- 
less in  Fentree's  office.  He  was  in  a  trap.  A  terrible 
dreary  fate  had  prepared  a  test  for  him  that  threw  his 
soul  and  mind  into  crashing  turmoil  from  which  there 
seemed  no  outlet. 

But  the  test  had  come !  It  had  come  in  this  shape — 
cutting  savagely  across  all  rules  of  right  and  wrong, 
and  fair  or  crooked — squarely  across  everything — 
everything  except  loyalty.  Would  Marika  expect  him 
to  stand  by  ?  .  .  .  He  was  pledged  to  her  to  stand  true 
to  those  he  truly  loved! 

Did  he  love  Varsh?  .  .  .  He  thought  of  him  with 
horrible  racking  pity.  If  Varsh  had  ever  had  such 
chances  as  his  own  he  would  have  been  twice  the  man ! 
For  Varsh  was  always  true  to  those  he  loved!  A 
hundred  pictures  of  the  boy  Varsh  ran  through  his 
head :  Varsh  who  had  rowed  and  carried  him  about 
the  lake,  who  had  taken  the  ugly  fish  off  his  line ;  Varsh 
who  had  always  defended  him  and  laughed  at  dan- 
ger !  Suddenly  he  saw  himself  in  Varsh's  place  .  .  . 


332     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

saw  Marika  pleading  with  Varsh  to  help  .  .  .  saw  the 
great  boy  with  the  merry  black  eyes  .  .  .  hesitating? 
.  .  .  no!  .  .  .  but  leaping  to  defend,  to  save  Stash-a- 
boy  at  any  cost ! 

Should  he  see  that  brother  railroaded  into  prison 
again — the  horror  house  that  had  blasted  his  soul  as 
the  mine  had  blasted  his  nerves  ...  no!  no!  ...  not 
if  he  could  help  it!  ...  not  if  he  could  clench  his 
own  slack  heart  and  nerve  together,  and  sweep  behind 
him  the  rosy  glamour  of  all  his  old  dreams.  Good-bye 
to  that!  He  snatched  one  backward  look,  as  a  small 
Stash  had  at  the  big  boat  that  had  brought  him  across 
the  Lake.  .  .  .  Good-bye  then  to  the  dream  of  great 
ships  on  the  Lakes.  Good-bye  ...  to  the  little  Prin- 
cess of  Castle  Durand. 

The  mystic  figure  of  the  musical  ship  towered  over 
him — pointing  the  way. 


CHAPTER  VII 


The  night  of  the  seventh  came;  and  Stash  was  in 
Varika's  grove  when  a  car  swept  in  from  the  west, 
and  the  lantern  in  Varika's  hand  showed  the  wild-eyed 
Karsh,  a  big  slouch-hatted  driver,  and  Varsh  .  .  . 
coatless  and  with  blood  gummed  wrist. 

He  listened  breathless  under  the  rustling  night  trees 
to  the  blacksmith's  story  of  wild  assumption.  He  saw 
the  huge  militia  guarded  meeting,  and  its  motion  pic- 
tures taken  by  electric  fusees  to  surprise  and  expose 
the  "dynamiters"  publicly;  saw  the  wild  turmoil  and 
Karsh's  men  flinging  out  great  Polish  shawls  that  muf- 


THE  SPLENDID  ENTERPRISE  AT  LAST    333 

fled  the  guards  and  hid  themselves  and  coiled  Varsh 
and  guard  in  a  blinding  tight  sack.  .  .  .  They  had 
dropped  the  Polander  shawls  and  the  guard  by  the  re- 
sounding dark  lake  shore  and  boomed  on  south. 

Karshenko  told  the  story  in  harsh,  broken  words.  A 
mourning  dove  somewhere  in  the  trees  woke  to  com- 
plain. The  big  driver  cautioned  Varika  to  darken 
his  lantern.  The  sound  of  his  voice  brought  Stash's 
head  forward.  It  was  Tom  Shieling. 

With  a  dim  glimmer  to  light  them  they  took  Varsh 
across  the  flats  to  the  deserted  mining  village,  and  hid 
him  in  one  of  the  cabins.  Even  then  his  last  word 
was  not  to  big  Karsh.  With  his  good  hand  he  caught 
Stash's  hand  and  muttered:  "Stash — Stash-a-lx>y ! — 
you  come !" 

II 

There  he  stayed  in  the  huddle  of  creeking  cabins 
for  two  nights.  But  during  the  third  night  he  came 
tearing  across  the  flats  to  Varika's.  He  was  panting 
terribly.  They  had  come!  he  said.  He  had  heard 
them  muttering  before  they  reached  his  cabin. 

"We  gotto  get  him  away  to-night!"  Varika  told 
Stash  the  next  morning.  He  had  brought  the  younger 
brother  out  from  town.  The  little  Czech,  who  had 
hidden  Varsh  in  his  barn,  was  terribly  perturbed.  He 
fought  with  Marika  to  keep  her  from  taking  part ;  but 
promised  the  three  horses  for  the  night. 

Evening  came  on,  and  the  shadows  began  to  lodge 
gloomily  in  the  sycamores.  The  night  insects  creaked 
in  desultory  shrillness.  Varsh  accepted  the  plan  for 
him  in  dumb  agitation.  Stash  had  got  one  of  the  farm 
hands  to  shave  the  wolf  brother;  and  he  showed  a  piti- 
able white  face,  scarred  and  sunken,  in  the  last  eve- 


334.     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

ning  light.  It  was  like  a  terrible  crumbled  reflection 
of  Stash  himself. 

The  sky  in  the  west  grew  pink,  and  dulled.  .  .  . 
And  then  another  light  sprang  up  ...  and  within  a 
short  space  brought  everyone  out  under  the  trees.  The 
mining  town  was  on  fire.  Stash  guessed  some  sinis- 
ter purpose  in  it. 

It  grew  darker  in  the  grove  and  the  first  excited  talk 
fell.  The  night  breeze  shook  softly  in  the  sycamores 
and  from  far  across  the  flats  came  the  crackling  re- 
port of  timbers  falling.  The  fields  looked  as  if  lighted 
with  a  russet  red  moon  or  the  coming  of  a  peculiar 
storm.  Two  of  the  Shabbata  boys  drove  in  on  the 
rust-tinged  road,  their  stout  Bohemian  faces  taking  a 
sheen  of  copper. 

While  the  hubbub  of  greeting  raged,  Stash  and 
Marika  hurried  Varsh  around  to  the  dark  side  of  the 
house,  where  the  horses  were  waiting.  .  .  .  They 
struck  off  for  the  road  of  the  old  tamarack  dark  turn, 
avoiding  the  glimmer  that  flickered  on  the  wide  flats. 

Following  a  roundabout  course  they  reached  town 
on  the  west.  Lights  appeared  in  lengths  and  reaches, 
and  streets  streamed  on  ahead.  At  times  they  hushed 
the  flurrying  staccato  of  hoofs  to  listen.  .  .  .  They 
reached  Father  Dubrowski's  dark  house  on  Shabbona 
safely,  and  the  small,  dark,  stained-faced  father  showed 
Stash  where  to  tie  the  horses  in  the  rear. 

Passing  under  the  shadow  of  the  brick  wall  which 
separated  the  church  from  the  narrow  yard,  Stash 
heard  a  low  whistle.  -He  thought  for  the  moment 
that  it  was  Father  Jan's,  but  learned  inside  that  it  was 
not. 

Varsh  sat  in  the  darkened  back  room  under  a  dim 
light  from  the  sapphire  sputter  of  the  gas  mantle.  He 


THE  SPLENDID  ENTERPRISE  AT  LAST    335 

caught  the  murmur  of  alarm  in  their  manner,  and  be- 
gan breathing  sharply.  He  clutched  Marika's  sleeve: 
"My  God,  Rika,  I  can'  bother  you  no  more !  Let  me 
go  now.  ...  I  say  good-bye  to  you!  .  .  ."  He  took 
her  hand  in  his  and  covered  it  with  his  bandaged  hand. 
There  was  no  blood  on  it  to-night  to  soil  hers. 

"I  say  good-bye  to  you,  lil'  Rika  .  .  .  and  you  .  .  . 
you  say  good-bye  to  her!"  There  was  a  haunting  dig- 
nity about  him,  the  reckless  big  curves  of  his  face 
thrown  back. 

Something  was  twisting  unbearably  in  Marika's 
throat.  "No! — no!"  she  whispered  passionately, 
mothering  his  bandaged  hand  with  hers.  ...  In  her 
extremity  of  choking  anguish  she  turned  to  Stash. 
...  As  if  in  some  way  he  would  find  a  way  to 
help.  .  .  . 

She  saw  his  head  lunged  forward,  his  eyes  staring 
blank,  as  if  stricken  by  some  paralysis  of  horror  or  an- 
ger. A  strange  mad  scheme  had  come  to  him — born 
of  the  sickening  sight  of  that  face  of  Varsh  so  like  his 
own.  He  grasped  Varsh's  arm  with  a  brusque  wild 
sweep  of  power : 

"I'll  change  with  you,"  he  flung  out  hoarsely, 
"they've  been  watching  here!  Now  they've  gone  for 
help.  .  .  .  Some  Durand  force  .  .  .  they'll  be  back 
.  .  .  they'll  find  me  here!  .  .  .  I'll  be  you!  Marika'll 
take  you  out  the  back  way — down  Shabbona,  then  you 
go  to  the  old  Wabash  depot — understand!  .  .  .  Come 
on,  then!" 

Varsh  protested  with  an  angry  sob,  as  if  he  couldn't 
bear  such  kindness  from  old  Stash-a-boy — whose  lit- 
tleness he  had  carried  on  his  back  in  memory  so  long. 

But  big  Stash  slid  an  arm  under  his  and  led  him 
swiftly  through  the  hall,  muttering  in  a  low,  hoarse 


336     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

crooning  a  steadying  encouragement  as  he  ran.  To 
this  accompaniment  he  tore  off  Varsh's  rough  clothes, 
and  forced  his  own  on  the  broken,  nerve-shattered 
wolf  man.  .  .  .  Then — for  there  was  no  time  to  lose 
— led  him  at  a  rush  through  the  hall,  where  huge  can- 
vases caught  a  dim  black  sheen. 

Marika  was  ready.  There  were  a  few  minutes  to 
wait  before  the  clanging  car  droned  down  Shabbona 
Street;  and  she  smoothed  the  wrinkled  sleeve  on 
Varsh's  arm  with  short,  swift  touches. 

The  car  came  on  with  a  jolting  clangor.  Father 
Tan  flung  open  the  front  door ;  Marika  led  Varsh  to  the 
crossing  and  got  on.  The  car  hummed  down  the 
dusky  depth,  and  was  lost  in  the  dull  sounding  of  the 
town. 

Stash  sat  with  head  on  his  hands  thinking — with  a 
torrential  drumming  of  thoughts — until  Marika  re- 
turned. White  faced  and  trembling,  she  had  little  to 
say.  .  .  .  Everything  still  in  doubt.  Stash  learned 
that  she  hadn't  entered  the  station  for  fear  of  draw- 
ing attention. 

They  sat  in  the  semi-dark;  and  the  same  pictures 
were  forming  in  their  minds  ...  of  Varsh  in  the 
grimy  old  Station  .  .  .  white  and  clean  faced,  as  if 
dressed  and  anointed  for  some  rite — and  waiting — 
waiting. 

Marika's  eyes  were  drawn  irresistibly  to  Stash  in  his 
dirty  torn  clothes.  .  .  .  Somehow  she  couldn't  bear 
it,  and  crossed  agitatedly  to  the  piano.  She  touched 
it  ...  but  that  she  couldn't  bear,  either.  .  .  .  Every 
melody  she  thought  of — filled  with  awful,  sweet  memo- 
ries. .  .  .  Even  some  little  oberta  she  had  learned 
while  Stash  was  away  was  connected  with  dreams  or 
thoughts  of  him.  .  .  .  Stash  was  in  them  all.  And 


THE  SPLENDID  ENTERPRISE  AT  LAST    337 

yet  she  commanded  herself  to  be  brave  and  daring  for 
him: 

"What'll  I  play?"  she  asked  tremulously. 

Stash  was  looking  sharply  at  her  as  if  fascinated, 
with  a  strange  smile  on  his  big,  daring  face — as  if  he 
had  glimpsed  something  beyond,  beyond,  far  beyond 
her — and  yet  must  look  through  her  gold  black'  eyes 
to  see  it — something  wildly,  wonderfully  beautiful. 
.  .  .  Stars  beyond  the  dark! 

"0  Gwiadeczko-'ll  do!"  He  made  an  abrupt  glad 
gesture  with  Varsh's  battered  soft  hat  clenched  in  his 
fist. 

Marika  played  it  through  once;  the  room  swelled 
with  the  infinite  humming'  of  a  lonely  wild-land,  vast 
beyond  all  sadness,  splendid  beyond  all  gloom.  Try- 
ing it  again  her  fingers  stumbled;  and  she  turned  to 
Stash  with  hands  held  out,  angrily  protesting.  .  .  . 
The  tears  were  streaming  down  her  face:  "I  told 
you  all  about  such  a  gladness,"  she  cried  harshly,  "in 
the  dark ! — so  that  I  could  take  it.  ...  But  now  when 
you  are  going — maybe  to  prison — that's  all  gone — like 
nothing  just  falling  to  ...  nothing!" 

Stash  sprang  to  his  feet:  "But  /  see  it  now,"  he 
muttered  hoarsely,  "Rika ! — I  see  it  now — something ! 
— something — that  you  can  take  it  like  you  said!  .  .  . 
7  see — 7  see!" 

With  his  chin  thrust  high,  he  stood  looking  above 
— beyond  her.  .  .  .  It  had  come  to  him!  .  .  .  the  en- 
terprise of  loyalty!  .  .  .  and  it  was  more  splendid 
than  all.  .  .  . 

She  saw  him  as  if  swept  on — by  a  miracle  of  move- 
ment— as  if  leaving  some  mooring  behind — as  if  sway- 
ing on — on — as  if  on  some  ship — moving — moving. 
.  .  .  Behind  him  in  the  dimness  looming,  tall  mourn- 


ful  hats  rode  on  a  red  sunset  sea-.  .  .  .  And  from  the 
daunting  stormy  faces  that  rode  beneath — he  had 
caught  something  that  belonged  to  him. 

The  rumbling  that  she  feared  had  come  at  last.  The 
bell  jangled  through  the  house  .  .  .  the  porch  thun- 
dered .  .  .  they  thrust  into  the  hall: 

"No  use  to-  run — -we  got  a  post  in  back !" 

But  Stash  had  not  attempted  to  run.  Instead,  he 
had  picked  up  a  chair  and  rushed  at  them.  A  leveled 
revolver  brought  him  to  a  dead  halt.  The  chair  top- 
pled from  his  hands  .  .  .  which  he  held  out  to  them. 
He  had  thrust  Varsh's  hat  over  his  forehead. 

"Pull  off  that  hat!"  someone  called.  It  was  the 
greenish-faced  Drumgoole  with  his  grin  of  lazy  de- 
pravity. 

The  officer  snatched  it  off. 

"Got  the  wrong  guy!"  sneered  the  pebbled-faced 
man  behind  Drumgoole,  "I  told  you  so!  He's  the 
one  Drum  saw  get  on  the  car  with  her!" 

"Well,  how's  he  here  again?"  the  bewildered  "har- 
ness" man  asked. 

"I  mean  our  fellow  got  on  the  car !"  the  yellow  mot- 
tled face  turned  red  spotted  with  rage.  "He's  at  Shab- 
bony  station  now  and  gone!"  He  cursed  their  stu- 
pidity, and  led  the  charge  for  the  open  door  where  the 
night  wind  was  whipping  in. 

in 

In  the  droning  gloom  of  the  old  train  sheds  Varsh 
stood  waiting.  Though  the  night  was  warm,  his  hand 
— gripping  the  ticket  that  Stash  had  given  him  the 
money  to  get — was  sweaty  cold.  The  large  concourse 
clock  echoed  ten.  Every  moment  now  he  thought  he 


THE  SPLENDID  ENTERPRISE  AT  LAST    339 

heard  the  drum  of  the  train  on  the  bridge.  ...  He 
kept  remembering  how  Marika  had  brushed  out  his 
wrinkled  sleeve.  Later  he  could  think  back  to  that 
little  thing.  They  had  made  him  clean  with  that  coat 
.  .  .  and  with  something  else.  .  .  .  He  doubted  not 
that  some  further  wonderful  transformation  awaited 
him.  .  .  .  When  not  so  dazed  and  tender  he  would 
think  back  to  that  little  thing — smoothing  his  sleeve 
with  her  little  hand! 

Blind  spots  suddenly  cruised  before  his  eyes  .  .  . 
and  between  these  lesions  of  terror  he  saw  faces — 
triumphant  and  terrible! 

"Got  you- — Pla — zazzie!" 

He  fell  back  against  the  iron  grille.  The  touch  of 
the  rigid  wall  spurred  him  out.  Before  they  could 
draw ! — from  the  last  peak  of  defiance  and  despair  he 
hurled  himself  at  them.  .  .  .  Suddenly  he  was  in  the 
dark.  .  .  .  Then  a  crashing  light  glared  through  him 
— blazing  down  his  scorched,  astonished  soul.  .  .  .  But 
he  awoke  to  life  again — such  as  in  a  dream.  .  .  . 
Something  wept  and  sang  for  him !  .  .  .  Then  a  faint 
humming  like  infinite,  unknown  news  thinning  down 
a  dim  wire  .  .  .  dimming  .  .  .  out. 


Stash  leaned  out  from  the  saddle,  fumbling  in  the 
dark  for  Marika's  hand — gave  it  a  hard  squeeze — and 
— it  seemed  to  him — roared  out  of  the  echoing  brick 
alley.  The  staccato  scurry  of  the  hoofs  on  the  wider 
street  separated  itself  from  his  rushing  thought — only 


340     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 
i 

reminding  him  now  and  then  that  "Podvodnik" — like 

Marika's  last  gift  and  touch — was  moving  like  a  ma- 
chine beneath  him.  .  .  . 

A  thousand  reverberations  of  his  old  life  drained 
through  his  mind,  like  the  gritty  crooning  of  the  street 
car's  dwindling  hum,  like  the  thousand  noises  of  the 
city's  drab  dull  roar  sinking  behind  him.  He  crossed 
the  Pentwater  and  Turba  canal,  and  drummed  on  over 
the  dark  causeways  of  the  marsh  country.  Sometimes 
a  snipe  whipped  by  with  its  crippled  wheepling  cry 
— like  one  of  his  own  thoughts  lapsing  into  the  past. 
.  .  .  Why  hadn't  he  rushed  them! — with  all  his 
strength! — held  them  up  just  a  little  longer!  But 
Marika  had  been  in  back  of  him!  His  mind  cringed 
like  a  crumbling  red  cinder  from  the  danger  he  had 
i*un  in  raising  that  chair! — the  bare  threat  enough  to 
make  those  fellows  shoot!  The  thought  of  Marika 
killed,  through  him,  was  like  the  thundering  end  of 
everything.  ...  But  Varsh! — if  he  could  only  know 
about  him!  But  better  he  didn't! — glad  he  couldn't! 
No,  no! — anything  to  crush  the  terrible  feeling  that 
Varsh  was  gone!  His  thoughts  streamed  back — like 
the  black  willow  banks.  .  .  .  That  Turba  town  had 
done  it — that  man-killer  town! — no,  the  mine! — Fen- 
tree's  mine! — no,  no!  not  Fentree! — nor  Jennika! — 
nor  the  old  hotel — nor  himself! — No!  no! — A  horri- 
fied sweet  roll  of  memories  poured  like  an  organ  blast 
through  his  mind.  .  .  .  Oh,  Varsh! — his  heart  whined. 
.  .  .  Oh,  big  Varsh  on  the  marsh  lake  with  him !  .  .  . 
Merry-mournful  old  Varsh!  .  .  . 

Those  man-killers — Turba,  the  mine,  the  prison — 
had  crushed  him  in!  ...  Like  that  fight  when  Tom 
Shieling  had  battered  his  face!  .  .  .  The  unescapable 
endless  memories !  .  .  .  Durand,  Durand,  Durand — he 


THE  SPLENDID  ENTERPRISE  AT  LAST    341 

had  called  Durand  a  man-killer  town  .  .  .  but  he  had 
always  liked  that  name — Durand,  Durand,  Durand. 
.  .  .  "If  we'd  held  closer  hands!"  Andre  had  said 
once  at  Gossians.  Instead  of  pulling  apart.  ...  If 
they'd  all  held  closer  hands,  closer  hands,  closer  hands ! 
.  .  .  What  was  back  of  it  all?  .  .  .  The  unbearable 
torrent  of  thought  ran  on!  ...  Oh,  Marika! — closer 
hands  with  you!  Why  hadn't  he! — Oh,  Marika! — if 
there  is  only  something  beyond  all  the  dark !  It  seems, 
it  seems  almost,  at  moments,  that  he  can  see ! — beyond, 
beyond  the  dark!  .  .  . 

n 

Podvodnik  lunged  into  a  startled  gallop — at  some  in- 
stinctive thrust  of  Stash's  knee — or  perhaps  some 
warning  vibration  from  far  down  the  road.  .  .  .  Now 
that  he  had  stopped  Stash  could  hear  it — the  pounding 
exhaust  of  a  machine.  ...  A  dark  marshy  pool 
banked  with  pines  lay  on  the  left.  He  sent  Podvodnik 
crashing  among  the  trees;  and  waited  with  a  vague 
thrill  of  wonder  and  expectation  chilling  the  back  of 
his  neck  and  head. 

The  toppling  glare  of  the  machine  came  trundling 
on  ...  burst  by  ...  and  diminished  into  the  north. 
.  .  .  With  Varsh's  battered  hat  cutting  a  sawed-down, 
savage  outline  in  the  pale  star-light,  Stash  emerged 
and  sent  Podvodnik  skittering  along  in  his  splendid 
running-groove  tattoo. 

He  took  his  course  east  by  north,  relying  on  his 
sense  of  friendly  roads — and  on  the  stars.  .  .  .  These 
trembled  brightly  as  he  scoured  on,  as  the  sky  grew 
darker  with  its  blue,  dusk  bloom. 

He  crossed  the  state  line  at  Kincaid;  got  a  fresh 
horse;  paid  for  Podvodnik's  putting-up;  and  moved 


342     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

on  into  lower  Michigan;  while  the  stars  paled  and 
twinkled  pallid,  and  the  dawn  came  swiftly  on. 

in 

He  caught  an  early  interurban  express  into  Detroit, 
and  crossed  the  hurrying  azure  straits.  He  saw  the 
bright  water  slapping  at  the  foot  of  Joseph  Campau 
Avenue — and  turned  quickly  to  look  the  other  way. 
The  Canadian  shore  crept  nearer  with  each  soughing 
shower  of  the  bow.  He  looked  back  again — and  it 
was  as  if  his  hands  leapt  out  to  vanishing  memories 
unutterably  poignant  and  dear — and  dark  with  a  bit- 
ter regret. 

A  horrible  hate  sprang  up  in  him  as  he  looked — a 
rolling  agony  of  longing — for  harsh  nameless  satisfac- 
tion— for  revenge!  He  watched  the  city  fall  back:— 
to  him — in  its  morning  brightness — distantly,  tremu- 
lously, splendidly  serene.  .  .  .  But  behind  that  splen- 
dor of  water-dancing  avenue  ends  were  Durand  and 
Turba  and  a  hundred  other  killer  towns  ...  a  whole 
country  that  had  no  use  for  him  or  Varsh.  Never 
mind! — he  could  throw  himself  into  the  fight  against 
the  great  killer  country  of  all  the  world ;  and  after  that 
dark.  .  .  .  But  the  dark  came  first!  He  clenched  his 
hands.  Into  it  now!  And  beyond  that  dark — such  a 
dawn  maybe! — such  a  morning  dawn  of  all  the  golden 
stars.  .  .  . 

CHAPTER  IX 


The  first  weeks  in  camp  worked  a  strange  change  in 
Stash  Plazarski.     He  had  merely  thrown  himself  on 


THE  SPLENDID  ENTERPRISE  AT  LAST    343 

Janvier  and  the  war  as  a  way  out.  But  under  Raoul's 
guidance  he  had  joined  the  Canadian  forces  at  Val- 
cartier,  and  with  the  passing  of  the  first  confusion  he 
found  his  mind  clearing  of  the  passion  and  despair 
of  those  last  days  in  the  land  below  the  Lakes. 

He  looked  back  at  that  Land  now.  He  had  lived 
there  once — in  the  midst  of  its  turmoil  and  cruel  towns. 
But  strangest  thing  of  all  to  him,  as  he  stood  on  guard 
duty  under  the  chill  brilliance  of  the  Canadian  night 
and  stars,  was  the  thought  that  he  had  ever  hated  it! 

How  could  he  ever  have  hated  a  country  that  Fen- 
tree  belonged  to?  He  looked  back  to  his  farthest 
recollections  of  that  man.  They  were  the  memories 
of  a  tiny  boy — when  the  thin-faced  lawyer  had  sat 
beside  him  at  Koban  Hotel  dances — and  he  had 
thought  him  the  best  man  in  the  world — next  to  Uncle 
Jan.  .  .  . 

He  thought — with  what  a  thrill  of  remembered 
happiness! — of  later  days:  of  walking  home  abreast 
with  Fen  from  old  Shabbona  Station.  .  .  .  He  saw  the 
shady  stretch  of  Wacaser  Street  in  the  cool  noon 
quiet  .  .  .  and  imagined  himself  there  once  again! 
...  It  came  to  him  then  like  a  wonderful  discovery 
— that  he  loved  it  all  \  Not  because  it  was  ideal — but 
because  it  had  a  beauty  all  its  own! — such  as  he 
couldn't  bear  to  lose.  He  remembered  that  he  had  felt 
the  same  about  the  old  hostinets  times :  that  they  were 
far  from  ideal! — but  that  they  held  some  sweetness- 
some  beauty  that  had  fallen  short  only  so  far  as  he 
had  failed  to  realize  it — failed  in  loyal  return  to  his 
friends. 

He  had  failed  toward  old  Mac,  in  deserting  to  the 
vain  enterprise  of  mines  and  shipping.  He  had  failed 
toward  old  Scarbro,  deserting  him  in  Detroit  in  his 


344     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

sickness — the  old  man's  only  friend!  He  had  failed 
toward  Fentree,  throwing  aside  the  chance  to  work 
with  him  and  help  him  accomplish  his  dreams.  He 
had  thrown  that  chance  away — for  what  ? — What  could 
it  have  been?  ...  A  job  at  Slason's  theatre  and  a 
dance  at  Maddon's  on  the  hill!  .  .  .  He  had  not  been 
loyal. 

And  his  disloyalty  had  not  only  betrayed  himself, 
but  it  had  brought  tragedy  to  others :  possibly  Varsh's 
ruin — possibly  Fentree's  collapse.  Looking  back  now, 
he  saw  so  clearly  how  these  could  have  been  averted. 
.  .  .  If  he  had  only  stuck  by  Varsh  and  Fen  I  .  .  . 
Fen  would  have  helped  him  to  save  Varsh !  .  .  .  Then 
all  together,  by  grace  of  loyalty,  they  could  have  been 
saved!  But  he  was  always  hundreds  of  miles  away 
when  misfortune  was  gathering  about  his  people  and 
Fentree's. 

It  was  strange  that  with  his  accusation  of  his  own 
disloyalty  he  could  see  no  disloyalty  in  Fentree's  later 
course.  In  his  heart  he  guarded  him  from  that  thought, 
and  devised  a  thousand  excuses  for  him.  He  laid  the 
lawyer's  mistakes  to  the  harsh  and  cruel  complexity 
of  the  country  that  had  ruined  Varsh !  And  that  coun- 
try was  the  under  side  of  America. 

He  saw  now  that  there  were  two  Americas:  the 
one  that  had  destroyed  Varsh,  and  the  one  that  Fentree 
and  good  old  Mac  belonged  to  ...  and  Andre!  and 
Tallant!  and  Marion! — and,  yes,  and  the  Varikas! 
They  were  all  part  of  that  Land  across  the  Lakes — 
that  land  of  turmoil  and  treachery  and  mistaken  aims. 

At  times  he  must  grit  his  teeth  again  at  that  country 
that  had  killed  Varsh!  Marika  had  written  him  of 
Varsh's  death.  But  as  he  thought  over  her  letter  at 
night  he  felt  again — with  devastating  force — that  he 


THE  SPLENDID  ENTERPRISE  AT  LAST    345 

himself  had  helped  kill  Varsh — by  not  standing  by 
him.  He — Sergeant  Stanislaw  Plazarski — belonged  to 
both  Americas! — within  the  land  that  had  destroyed 
Varsh  and  all  his  gay,  eager  family.  For  he,  Stash, 
with  his  turbulent  spirit,  and  gang  wrangling,  and 
absorbing  fierce  interest  in  himself,  had  belonged  to 
the  harsh  and  careless  country — to  the  killer  towns. 

He  saw  that  he  must  take  the  two  countries  just  as 
they  were  .  .  .  for  they  were  mingled  in  him! — and 
he  belonged  to  them!  They  had  given  him  the  Fen- 
trees,  and  they  had  given  him  the  Koban  Lake  people 
and  all  the  sad  beauty  and  tragedy  of  the  glimmering 
marsh  country,  where  he  had  been  a  boy. 

It  was  a  long  time  ^before  he  could  accept  and 
reconcile  the  two  Americas.  Even  then  he  did  not 
quite  reconcile  them.  He  just  accepted  them.  ...  As 
he  had  accepted  wild  and  generous  old  Varsh  in  his  last 
tragic  call  for  help — with  a  leaping  surge  of  loyalty! 
— loyalty  that  is  the  greatest  gift  of  all.  .  .  . 

And  in  spite  of  his  growing  love  for  Raoul  and  his 
other  great-hearted  comrades  of  the  Canadian  Arms, 
in  spite  of  his  enthusiasm  for  the  Air  Force  into  which 
he  had  transferred,  he  had  begun  at  last  to  long  for 
the  time  when  he  could  fight  for  the  Land  below 
Ontario  .  .  .  that  land  of  sad  and  strange  and  exalt- 
ing beauty  ...  the  land  of  the  lakes,  and  the  city 
where  he  was  born  ...  of  the  Fentrees  and  big  Mac 
and  Varika  .  .  the  land  that  was  his  own. 


ii 

And  the  chance  came  to  go  back. 
He  was  sent  down,   on   Captain  Janvier's  recom- 
mendation, to  raise  recruits  among  the  Czech  farmers 


346     STASH  OF  THE  MARSH  COUNTRY 

and  Sokol  lodges.  He  had  learned  from  Marika's 
letters  to  expect  certain  changes  at  Koban  Lake.  .  .  . 
Among  these  that  the  lake  itself  had  come  back.  The 
ramp  breech  had  been  re-filled;  the  river  had  swollen 
with  fall  rains ;  and  winter  had  brought  back  the  great 
sheet  of  marsh  water. 

It  was  for  Stash  now  to  use  that  word  swoboda! — 
which  he  had  laughed  at  in  Varika's  mouth.  And  he 
apologized  to  the  little  man — the  afternoon  before  he 
left — sitting  on  a  bench  in  the  grove :  "You  remember 
the  time  you  told  us — Andre  and  me — that  the  trouble 
was  people  had  gotten  seedy  on  swoboda?" 

"We  must  never  do  dat  again!"  Varika  shook  his 
head  decisively:  "yes — yes! — /  remember!  .  .  ."  he 
sighed. 

There  was  another  mistake  that  Stash  could  never 
make  again:  to  think  that  Marika  could  be  anything 
but  strangely,  wonderfully  beautiful.  When  he  sat  by 
the  slip-slapping  cove  that  night,  he  told  her  that  his 
flying  contingent  would  be  going  over-seas  the  next 
month.  He  clasped  her  hand  in  his  two  big  quivering 
hands :  "I'm  going  maybe  for  ever !" 

"But  I'll  wait  for  you  forever,  Stash!"  she  cried, 
as  he  poured  out  a  torrent  of  pleading,  "I  will  always ! 
There  is  nobody  for  me  but  you,  forever  and  ever! 
.  .  .  Ever  since  you  stood  in  our  store  .  .  .  little 
timid  boy  .  .  .  an'  got  so  sudden  all  frisky  an'  daring 
that  you  were  astonished  at  yourself !  .  .  .  Ever  since 
— ever  since!" 

in 

The  next  morning  they  clasped  hands  in  farewell, 
and  Stash  brusquely  kissed  the  caught-up  lip  and  the 


THE  SPLENDID  ENTERPRISE  AT  LAST    347 

flushed  cheek  below  the  black  and  gold  eyes  that  would 
not  cry. 

Varika  rowed  him  across  the  lake  to  the  crowded 
green  waiting-room  on  the  Valley  Electric  side. 
Among  those  with  tickets  to  Canada  via  Detroit  were 
two  of  the  Bezdek  boys,  Andy  Marzak  and  great  loud 
Bart  Shabbata.  He — Bart — who  had  one  time  planted 
a  sliver  of  suspicion  in  Stash's  boy  head — clasped 
Stash  and  Varika  both  about  the  shoulders.  It  was  al- 
ways his  dream  to  monopolize  all  the  prestige  and  glory 
in  sight.  Stash's  Canadian  uniform  was  a  cynosure 
among  that  boisterous,  virile  crowd. 

"You  fellows  that  aren't  in  now,"  Stash  spoke  with 
a  ring  of  expectant  pride,  "will  follow  us  fellows  when 
America  conies  in !  We'll  all  be  together  then !" 

Varika  simply  couldn't  take  his  gaze  away  from 
"the  boy" — and  that  little  maple  leaf  glittering — glit- 
tering in  the  morning  sun.  His  eyes  grew  red  with  a 
suffusion  of  pride  and  joy — and  something  else  he 
hardly  dared  think  of,  for  fear  he  would  have  to  "quit 
de  public !"  Not  but  that  he  could  keep  as  firm  a  hand 
on  himself  as  anybody!  .  .  .  anyway  until — until  the 
electric  train  gonged  rapidly  out  of  sight  down  the 
humming  rails. 

It  was  a  gusty  March  morning.  And  Koban  Lake 
shone  brisk  and  blue,  rustling  hoarsely  by  the  shore 
road,  as  it  had  that  first  morning  when  Stash  and  Mist 
Fen  drove  fast  along  the  shore. 

THE  END 


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Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


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